Resurrection
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: COMPLETEWhat if it had ended differently? What if Arthur was spared the pain? No Slash. Please RR.
1. Default Chapter

Resurrection

By MSC 7/22/04

The two lovers had torn his heart in that moment. As the battle raged all around him, he had looked from the lady he did not know to his captain. Who should he aid? Arthur was one man fighting several of the Saxon beasts. Guinevere was a woman, Woad or not. His instincts bid him go to the stranger, the one who had seemingly stolen his best friend. Was she any less capable a warrior as Arthur? He did not know. But in that moment, he had decided whom to aid. And in the fleeting minutes that he fought off her opponents, it had seemed that he had chosen right. She already bled from the blows received, and Arthur seemed to be handling himself well. Every other moment, Lancelot would glimpse the Roman. Always was Arthur under his watch, whether or not the captain knew it. It had all seemed so unreal. He fought in the same manner he had always kept, and she had stood watching him. He had never seen the arrow coming. And it had come, coincidentally, in the same moment that his attackers had fallen dead.

He had frozen in the hit. It was had not been a long arrow, but it's head had pierced his chest, so close to his heart. His eyes had gone wide, as they always would when he was shot, and his body had only flinched slightly. He could see her disbelief, her horror. He fought to resist dropping his swords, as every shuddering breath rippled his flesh with pain. He could not see who it was that had caught him, and he wondered if pleasure resided in his gaze. All he could think of as silence replaced his surroundings was Arthur. He should have thought about home. He should have been angry that death had seized him when freedom was so close. But all he could think about was his captain.

He had hardly felt himself fall. It seemed like the earth was reaching up with tender arms, embracing his tired body. The soil, however tainted it was, felt like a soft bed that had been calling to him for ages. His black curls splayed across the ground, his armor gravitating toward the earth, and his body was suddenly limp in the curves of the dirt. He no longer looked upon anything in the world, no longer heard the sounds of war that had belonged to his life for so long. He could not remember his fellow knights for more than a fleeting second, and even Arthur faded from his mind. As death reached out to him, he could think of nothing except a despair that had been harbored in his heart for too long. He felt every shudder of his failing heart, every surge of pain when he breathed and consequently shifted the arrow. He let his eyes slip closed and let go, sinking into darkness as if it were the sea.

She did not return to fighting. Though it went against her warrior nature, she abandoned the battle and knelt at his side instead. Her hands reached out to touch him, but he did not move. His eyes were glazed with death, staring blankly into the clouded sky, where the sun had long disappeared. He had come to her aid, though she was a stranger and an enemy, and here he lay dead for her. What had made him do it? What foolishness seized you, she thought. Blood pooled in his mouth, coating his lips, and she found that it caused her to feel bitter. How would Arthur take it? She knew the pain would be inhuman for him to bear. Better, she thought quietly, that he die in this battle as well, though I love him. Her eyes burned with an unfamiliar emotion.

He rushed toward her, relief overwhelming him at the sight of her still alive. Things had grown still around him, and he had killed Cedric at last. He carried the pain of Tristan's death as another fresh wound, harder to bear than the wound that bled freely through his armor. He did not understand why she was on the ground, her weapons abandoned. As he approached, his eyes flitted about, seeking his knights but finding no familiar faces. It was in the next moment that his heart sunk into the ground, when his eyes fell upon Lancelot, lying still before Guinevere. He fled to his side, stumbling to his knees opposite of his lady, but he seemed to be too late. Lancelot's eyes were unmoving, robbed of their depth and intensity that Arthur had always admired. Pain reverberated throughout his own eyes, as he looked into Lancelot's and found nothing. His heart flinched, crumbling in on itself, as his hand stretched out to caress Lancelot's hair with bittersweet affection.

" It was my life to be taken," he cried out to God. " Not this. Never this." He barely noticed Bors and Gawain at his side, their own faces wrought with pain as they looked upon Lancelot. Arthur bowed his head once more, his fingers entangling themselves in the familiar black curls. He could not keep his tears at bay for so much a moment – perhaps for any other knight but not Lancelot. Soundlessly, he began to weep, his body sinking into a slouch, his shoulders turning inward, and his heart aching with a pain he had not known existed. Lancelot had met the end he had wanted for himself, and if Arthur were not so grieved, it would have angered him. No one touched him or spoke, but allowed him the tears and moment of despair. They knew he could not be comforted.

After a time, he tried to gather himself back into composure, deciding he would take the arrow from his knight's flesh now, instead of waiting until they reached the wall. He wanted to carry the body back as Lancelot always was and preserve his friend's honor, which might be tainted with a Saxon arrow. Gently, as if Lancelot yet lived, Arthur took the arrow in his grasp, his other hand planted firmly on the man's chest, and eased it out as best he could. The others looked away as he did this, but their heads snapped back to attention when the silence was torn by a sharp gasp.

Lancelot had returned. He was panting for breath, his eyes wide, and he began to cough up blood. Arthur seized him by the shoulders, the arrow forgotten, his eyes boring into Lancelot's soul. He wasn't sure if he was still breathing or not. It felt as if his heart had shot up into his throat and frozen there. Gawain and Bors had fallen to their knees as well, looming over Lancelot's head, holding their breath along with Arthur and Guinevere. Arthur's hand had slipped under Lancelot's head, supporting him as the knight was racked with a coughing fit. Regardless of Lancelot's dark armor and his own tears, Arthur could see the blood rising up swiftly.

" Arthur," the knight spluttered, fighting to breathe.

" Hush," Guinevere said, intent on the knight who had saved her.

" Be still," Arthur urged, his own wave of emotions threatening to undo him. He pressed his hand to Lancelot's wound in attempts to staunch the blood, feeling his friend's heart racing up into his palm. The knight must be tended to immediately, lest he die. With Lancelot's head still in his hand, he felt himself breathe again. Panic was mounting in his chest, dangerously mounting. Lancelot's eyes were locked on his own, speaking volumes unto him. The knight was failing. His blood was fleeing all too quickly. His heart was slowing on its approach to death.

" Arthur." Galahad's call rang out through the tension, but only Gawain had room to be gladdened at his arrival. Their last knight was astride his horse again, waiting for his captain's words.

" It is Lancelot," Guinevere spoke out, getting to her feet. The young knight's eyes shifted from Arthur to her, sharpening at his comrade's name. " He fades," she explained. " We must get him to the Wall."

In the next moment, the others lifted Lancelot up to Galahad, their hands sending him off with prayer and hope. He slumped forward, in front of Galahad, who held him to his chest. Lancelot's hand held fast to Arthur's, his narrowed eyes looking to him as he breathed heavily.

" I'll take him as fast as possible," Galahad promised. " Do not linger long." They nodded, and Lancelot's hand was snatched out of Arthur's, as Galahad faded into the distance on the wings of haste.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well, I have written chapter 2. It's longer than the first, which was shamefully short. Sorry. I like the way this turned out, however. I hope you enjoy it. Please R/R, it makes my day. If you haven't already, please go read my two other King Arthur fanfics and review, I would deeply appreciate it. Some of the facts in my other 2 are screwed up since I wrote them before seeing the film, and I nearly hung myself for it… But hopefully, this fic makes up for it.

I wrote this while listening to the acoustic guitar version of Greensleeves, yay!

Anyway, hope this is decent, and thank you for reading and reviewing!

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Chapter 2

When Lancelot next awoke, the light was different. The gray skylight had been replaced with a golden glow, and he realized a candle burned on the small table next to his bed. This brought him to wonder how on earth he had landed himself in a bed, when the last thing he could remember was falling to the pillow soil. Yet as disorientation subsided, giving way to an incredible headache, flashes of Galahad mounted on his horse, Guinevere's shocked expression, and Arthur's hand in his tore through his mind. He was not sure if they were memories or pieces of the dream that he could not remember. His head ached too fiercely for deep thoughts.

" You're awake." He had not known someone else lingered in the room, and a startled jolt coursed through him. Guinevere stepped out of the shadows, her eyes glinting mysteriously in the light. She had shed her revealing Woad garb, washed her face of the blue stain, let her hair down in its ripples of dark silk. She was beautiful, he thought, as she neared him. How deceiving she was. Were she meeting him for the first time, he would have never guessed the lady was a warrior. She ceased in her approach, standing still but a few strides from his bedside, and her gown of pale green pooled at her feet like water. He breathed soundlessly, his dark eyes not so haughty as they typically were. Oh, she was beautiful.

" Why did you do it?" she asked, her eyes shifting away and back. " Why did you come to my aid?" He could not answer her at once, for he did not know the reason upon first thought. Realization struck him, however, and his admiration of her beauty became discreet within him.

" For Arthur," he said, honestly. " I do not miss the way he looks at you."

" Is that all?" she said, almost incredulous. " You came to my aid, me being a complete stranger, a Woad, just for Arthur?" Coming from her lips, it sounded like a lie.

" He is my friend," Lancelot answered plainly. " My dearest friend." At these words, his eyes fell away from her, in reflection. He wondered if Arthur yet lived, unsure if his memories were true or not. " I would spare him any pain." To this, she did not answer. Her eyes bored into his, once he lifted his head to look at her again, and she nodded. The lady turned away from him, gliding into the shadows without a sound, her hand reaching out to a door he could not see. He watched her as best he could from his position in bed, not attempting to sit up, and he was about to let her go without another word.

" Guinevere," he called to her, the first time he had used her name and not 'milady'. She peered over her shoulder, her lips parted, her eyes catching the candlelight again. He pushed himself up the pillow a bit, and after a minute of waiting, he said what he knew to be true. " He loves you." And by this acknowledgment, his heart sank at the inevitable future. Arthur would wed Guinevere, and they would disappear into his captain's beloved Rome. He would recover and return to Sarmatia with his fellow knights, never to see his dearest friend again, and Arthur would surely forget him.

" I have not missed the way he looks at you either, Lancelot," she said cleverly, after a moment, in which her eyes sparked because of the knight's words. He eyed her quizzically, uncertain of what she meant. Arthur never looked at him in a certain way, or so he had thought. " Differently," she continued and paused before adding, " Not the same way he looks at the other knights." Again, a stretch of silence hovered between them, and he was left waiting for more of her words, just as she had waited for his before. " He loves you, as well." She gave him a second, before disappearing beyond the door, but his confusion had not dissipated.

Hours passed by after Guinevere's departure in which Lancelot lay in bed alone, the candle flame flickering, swaying to and fro. He thought over the lady's words, trying to make sense of them. He wondered if she spoke true. Part of him doubted her integrity, for he knew, or at least believed, that Arthur loved no one more than his God. The Roman would talk to God instead of talking to Lancelot, trust God with his life instead of entrusting it to Lancelot, and lean on God when Lancelot's shoulder pined for the captain. It had always embittered him, the way Arthur was so religiously devoted, but out of respect for his friend and liege, he rarely gave voice to his feelings. Arthur loved no one, this part of Lancelot said sullenly. Perhaps he loved Guinevere, but only because she was a woman. The Roman had no more room in his heart for any one else. He didn't care for Lancelot, nor did he care for any of the other knights, living or dead.

Don't be foolish, the other part of him chided. Of course Arthur cares. You _know _this. You have _seen_ it. Lancelot's beliefs swayed again, as he remembered the look in Arthur's eyes whenever one of the knights was lost. He could not help but recall the way Arthur had looked at him, that night Lancelot had begged Arthur to drop his pursuit and follow him home. He remembered Arthur's hand around his neck, gentle and hidden in his curls. He remembered Arthur calling him 'friend.' How could Arthur _not_ care? It was impossible.

Perhaps the Roman cared, Lancelot reasoned, but he did not _love_ any of them. As he had thought before, Arthur didn't have any room to love anyone besides his God and his lady. Caring and loving were two entirely different things. Arthur _cared_ about the welfare of others, but he _loved_ God. He _cared _about his knights, but he was in _love_ with Guinevere. Lancelot could not see how anything else could be true. So often in the past few weeks had it seemed like Arthur cared little about him, like Lancelot and the knights had become completely insignificant when Guinevere had joined them. He had not forgotten his anger or his frustration, his sense of betrayal and the bitter hurt it left him with. Arthur didn't care, Lancelot concluded with a grimace. And he certainly didn't love any of them.

It was in that moment that his solitude was interrupted. The door swung open, sending a chill draft into the room that he could feel even from beneath his blankets, and another figure slipped in. For a moment, he could not see the newcomer's face, but Arthur stepped into view soon after. He strode forward but stopped, in the same place Guinevere had stood. His expression, however, was completely unstable, unlike hers had been. The captain stared at his knight with a hint of troubled concern, and Lancelot found that he was mildly relieved to see the Roman alive, though he had believed his memories to be true. The knight could tell his captain had been uneasy for a long while, unable to claim any rest. Yet the longer Arthur stood there, looking at him, the calmer he seemed to become.

" You have come," Lancelot said, not knowing what else to say.

" You sound surprised," Arthur said, unmoving from his place where the candlelight played on the rug and over his boots.

" I didn't expect you to come," Lancelot admitted, though part of him had. Arthur's brow furrowed.

" Why would you not?" the Roman questioned. Lancelot dropped his gaze into his lap.

" I would think your attentions would be consumed by Guinevere," he murmured, disappointment in his tone. Arthur's face contorted in further disbelief, and he strode forward, kneeling at Lancelot's bedside.

" Do not ever think that she would replace you or any of my knights, Lancelot," he said. " I have been waiting for the longest hours of my life to look upon your face again, and do not tell me that you believed I would not care to come at all."

" You're in love," the knight said plainly, looking narrowly into Arthur's eyes, though the Roman's words touched him. Arthur bowed his head.

" I am," he admitted softly, almost as if he were ashamed. " But that does not mean she replaces any of you." He had lifted his head to look at Lancelot again, sincerity in his gaze.

" You do not have room in your heart for anymore, Arthur," Lancelot said quickly, sounding more himself than before, speaking his mind. " You are so devoted to your God and now to her, we have no place there anymore. We never had." Arthur had backed away sharply, as if Lancelot had struck him. His eyes gleamed with disbelief and pain, and Lancelot looked away bitterly.

" How could you say that?" Arthur questioned, his voice quiet and wounded.

" How could you believe-," he said, looking down at the fur coverlet with eyes that glimmered as if tears resided in their pools.

" Because it is true, Arthur," Lancelot snapped, regretting it immediately. Arthur slowly lifted his head once more, eyes still swaying. " I'm going home," Lancelot began, his tone quieted again. " I am going home, to where I am free, and you… You are going back to your damned Rome, with Guinevere as your bride, undoubtedly. You won't think on any of us again, your dutiful knights." His tone had grown bitter again, but beyond that was a pain induced by his own words, his own thoughts. And Arthur could always tell when the pain was there.

To Lancelot's surprise, the captain slipped his gloved hand into his, bidding Lancelot to look at him again. " I will not go back to Rome," he began gently. " The Rome I have dreamt of does not exist. Nothing waits for me there." Lancelot did not let his guard down so easily, however. His scowl remained chiseled on his face. " And I suppose, if she'll have me, I will wed Guinevere." Arthur's eyes had floated to the coverlet again, like the snow of days before. " But I will not forget," he breathed. "Never." His eyes met Lancelot's, and neither spoke for a breath. " You are my knights," the Roman said. " You're my friends. Who else do I have after fifteen years away?"

" You will not follow us to Sarmatia," Lancelot said, sure that whether or not Arthur returned to Rome, his captain would not bring his bride to the land of his knights.

" I don't know where I'll go," Arthur admitted. " Everything had turned out so differently than I thought it would. Do you even consider Sarmatia home anymore?"

" I remember it," Lancelot replied. " I remember my family, and I promised them I would return. My sister is waiting." Arthur nodded in understanding, not forgetting the trinket Lancelot carried around his neck. " As for the others, I know not, save for Galahad. His heart is bound to our country."

" Gawain will follow him, I believe," Arthur said. " He is close to Galahad. I do not know if Bors cares or not. He may stay with the family he's created for himself." And they both smirked at their friend's situation. Bors would have to name the children if he stayed.

" Tristan will go wherever the winds takes him," Lancelot reflected, missing the grimace on Arthur's face.

" Lancelot," Arthur began, his hand still in his friend's. " Tristan fell." Painful grief poured into the pair of dark eyes, and Arthur allowed a long moment of silence.

" We'll have to bury him," Lancelot said at last, and Arthur only nodded.

" And I will not have to burn you," the captain murmured. Lancelot looked up at him and grinned, but Arthur wasn't smiling. His eyes glinted painfully again. " I came here," he started. " Because I was worried, Lancelot. I came because I've been desperate for hours after a night of restless sleep. I thought you had died." Lancelot was appalled at the glitter of tears in the Roman's eyes and the agony with which he spoke.

" I had already mourned your loss on the battlefield, and it was by God's grace that you returned. I had thought you were lost. I had believed it for so long a moment, and the pain was too much to bear, Lancelot. It was too much." His words flowed forth uncontrollably, unlike Arthur had ever spoken to him before, and Lancelot was aching with every word of his friend's confession.

" Galahad took you away, and they would not let me see you until now. I could find no rest or peace. I _needed_ to see you." He lifted his head, his breathing coming in heavy pants, his eyes near to bursting.

" I had never told you how sorry I am for making you feel neglected or mistrusted, just because I talk to God. I had never told you how sorry I am for any pain or fear I may have caused you by my commitment to my cause. I never told you how much you've meant to me all of these years." Lancelot's eyes were trapped by the Roman's, glimmering, as he felt himself unravel. He was afraid of his own emotions, of the vulnerability that made him feel as if he were drowning.

" And when I arrive at last, I learn that you have, for so long, believed that I did not care for you or any of my knights at all. It is the last thing I wanted, the very last." And Lancelot was suddenly filled with guilt and shame, longing to apologize with as much persuasive regret at possible.

" I don't know what to do," Arthur continued, sounding so helpless and defeated, so unlike himself, that Lancelot was broken-hearted. " I have failed you. I have failed all of you so completely, and I see no way of redemption." Arthur's voice was laced with utter despair, and his face was fallen almost beyond reversal. " The one thing I have always feared is hurting you, any of you." His voice was shaking, and the tears in his eyes threatened to plummet over his lashes at any moment. Lancelot only lay there, cursing himself for speaking his mind, searching for the right words to answer with.

" I'm sorry," Lancelot said, not even thinking. " I have been foolish. I never should have doubted your feelings. I'm the only one you've hurt, and only because of my own foolishness. You have failed no one, Arthur." He sat up a bit, trying to lean toward his captain. " You have failed no one." The captain's eyes were shining, and his lip quivered. " It is I who has caused you pain," Lancelot said, wincing at the ache in his heart that his admittance brought. " It is I who has caused you pain when I never meant to, and I'm sorry. I am so utterly sorry." Lancelot looked away from Arthur, tears springing forth in his own intense gaze and burning.

" It's all right," Arthur said quietly. " Everything's all right. You're alive. That is all I wanted." His other hand slid across the fur coverlet and closed over Lancelot's, so that the knight's hand was enveloped in both of Arthur's. " Do not ever think I don't care," he said again, his tone nearly devoid of the passionate sorrow it had held only a moment before. " I love you all," the Roman said quietly. " And you, Lancelot. You, who I know best." His hand slid away from the top of Lancelot's, and his other, clasped in his knight's, lifted. He bowed his head, shut his eyes, and his lips met Lancelot's hand in the most tender display of affection Lancelot had ever seen the Roman express. The knight's eyes glinted when the candlelight caught his tears, and he saw Arthur's spill over onto his cheeks from beneath his lashes, his lips unmoving from Lancelot's hand. The knight lay still for a moment, before pushing himself up, ignoring the pain that burned its way through his chest, and made to embrace Arthur.

" Don't," the captain said, his voice broken. He didn't want Lancelot to strain himself, but his friend paid no heed to him. Lancelot's arms were wrapped around Arthur in the next moment, his face buried in Arthur's neck, and the captain lost it. He whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut, and his arms reached up and encircled Lancelot, holding the knight to him gently. They remained this way for a long while, weeping in silence, until Arthur finally began to pull away. He eased Lancelot back down on the pillow, their eyes never breaking from each other's, and Arthur smiled faintly.

"Sleep," he said quietly, caressing Lancelot's black curls in the same way he had when the knight had lain dead on the battlefield. " You are weak." And his eyes stirred with concern, as his hand turned and slowly ran down the side Lancelot's face. "You have lost too much blood." He stroked Lancelot's cheek with the back of his curled fingers, looking at his friend's face with a troubled and yet fond expression.

" I would spill it all for you," Lancelot said, and Arthur smiled.

" No need calls for that," the captain answered. The candlelight flickered again, against Lancelot's curls. " Sleep."

" I would," Lancelot began. " If you would stay." Arthur smiled again and nodded. The knight obediently shut his eyes, slowly drifting into sleep, nudging into Arthur's fingers that continued to stroke his face gently. The captain remained knelt at his knight's side, smiling, watching the wounded warrior breathe. When Lancelot finally sunk into sleep, Arthur knew, and he ran his fingers up and down the knight's cheek for a moment more, before rising to his feet. He leaned down, softly kissed the knight's brow, and blew out the candle flame. Guinevere was waiting for him.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Yay, chapter 3! I don't think this is as good as 2, but whatever. Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers! Again, this isn't slash. Be at ease, those who don't want it to be. It's not. None of my crap is intended to be slash. But you can, of course, interpret it any way you want. Please R/R! Thank you!

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Chapter 3

When Arthur stirred from sleep, darkness had not yet lifted from the earth. He was restless, and he could not understand why. No dreams but troubled ones would come to him, and his heart could not find peace either. His eyes wandered the darkness of his room, as he lay awake in the most comfortable of beds he had been given in ages. Lancelot lived, victory and freedom were his, Guinevere loved him, and yet he could not sleep. Something seemed to reside in his fingers, in his limbs, that would not allow him to rest. He could see no visions in the dark, and thus, he shifted carefully out of Guinevere's arms. Taking his fur-skin and tucking the other blankets around his lady's form, Arthur left his lover asleep and slipped out undetected.  
  
Though it was nearly as cold as the days before, when he had traveled in a snow coated world, he did not move from his place at the top of the wall. Few guards roamed the path on watch, and none bothered the Roman who leaned against the side facing the battlefield. The bodies still lay untouched now, two days after the fight. The cold preserved them, though they would have to be moved sooner or later. The only one taken in had been Tristan, who now lay somewhere below, unmoving beneath his shroud. Arthur wondered where his hawk flew now. He supposed it did not matter, for wherever it was, the bird was free. Tristan was too, he concluded. Hadn't he always been? Arthur thought so.  
  
His breath came like puffs of smoke, palpable in the cold. His eyes strayed throughout his surroundings, ignoring the stars woven into the sky that blanketed the world. He could find no moon on this night. Yet as he stood alone, wrapped in his heavy fur, thoughts approached him that could not find their way in the black of his room before. He could only remember. The visions were tinted and lovely, even those which were of sorrow. They flowed in and out of his mind's eye, not like flashes, but stretched over his white breaths. He watched them with eyes set on the field and the smoke that hovered like mist over the dry blood. It seemed to reach his bones, though he was not cold the way he had been before. The fur kept visions that sunk into his limbs, and he seemed older than his years. He supposed war did that to all soldiers.  
  
He remembered the way Guinevere had kissed him but a few hours ago. Her fingertips were still clinging to his covered flesh, and her hands were still sending shudders up his spine. The ghosts of her kisses yet lingered all over him, memories of warmth on his now frozen lips. Her arms were still slung around his shoulders; her legs were yet entangled in his own. He could see her eyes fluttered closed, her wild hair slinking around her shoulders and over his. He was motionless in the night and the chill, yet his mind was filled with the darkness that he could see through and feel in. Her eyes were in his soul, her fingers were traveling his scars, and her warmth was drowning him in comfort and pleasure and ease. He wondered if it had been wrong of him to leave her.  
  
Yet the fur remembered older things more clearly. He could see each day of the fifteen years past, each hour coursing through his blood, each breath forgotten and now revived. He could see the faces of the empty round table chairs, and Bors' unashamed tears for Dagonet. He could see Tristan's eyes, set in a wild face, and the hawk that always knew where he was. Arthur watched the battles and the burials, with the smoke still clouding the corpses beyond. One memory crept up into him with quiet discretion, one that he cherished despite its nature. The world was white in this vision, not unlike the days before, and he was younger but no different. Battle had broken out in the desolate wilderness, and the Woads had left him alone with his knights alive or dead or fading. His own wounds had been numbed.  
  
Lancelot had lain still in the snow, one man amongst the bodies strewn across the forest floor. Arthur had recognized his right- hand knight immediately, and he had crawled toward him with desperate hope for Lancelot's survival. Where the Sarmatian's blades were, he had not known, but Excalibur had dragged at his side. With no other man stirring, Arthur had worked his way to Lancelot, ignoring the bodies and the blood splattered on the snow, shocking red into the sky. His gloved hand had slipped into Lancelot's, which had lain empty and upturned. The Roman recalled how his fingers had curled tightly around his friend's and the emptiness that had filled him when Lancelot did not respond. He had pulled himself up alongside the knight, looking into his pale face and shut eyes. A bit of snow had settled on Lancelot's chapped lip, failing to melt. The only warmth Arthur had been able to find that day was in the snow beneath Lancelot, where the Sarmatian's blood continued to stain the white.  
  
Lancelot had been so cold. Arthur had never forgotten how cold his knight had been. At first, it was only the Roman's impression, when Lancelot had not woken. The Sarmatian's lips had been blue, to accompany his color-drained face, and he had failed to shiver. Why he had not risen to his feet and began organizing matters, Arthur still did not know. Instead, he had reached into his pack that had been specifically made for the journey and pulled out his thick fur-skin. He had not expected a battle, he recalled. Arthur had stretched his hand out across Lancelot, the fur following, and had pulled the knight to his chest. It had been at that moment that Lancelot had cracked open his eyes, ice glittering in his lashes.  
  
"Cold," he had murmured. Arthur had never rid himself of the image – Lancelot had looked like death. Enveloping the two of them in his fur, the Roman had tucked Lancelot's head to his chest, the black curls under his chin.  
  
"I know," he had said, as Lancelot had started to breathe like sleep against him. Arthur's eyes had fluttered closed, his hand caught between fur and curls, and he had lain with Lancelot in the snow, bleeding in white silence.  
  
Arthur could see it clearly in his mind, the fur around him once again. That memory had been three winters ago, before Guinevere, before the death of Tristan and Dagonet. He remembered the snow and the cold and Lancelot's head against his heart; he remembered his slow, fading breath and the way he had kissed Lancelot's curls. He wondered what it would have been like if they had both died that day, in that moment. He wondered if God had been watching, and if He thought it had been beautiful. Arthur could still feel Lancelot's back moving against his arm and Lancelot's breath warming the same patch of his chest, despite it being colder than his own. He closed his eyes and he could see the Romans coming to his aid. Part of him had wanted no one to arrive. He had never admitted it, but part of him had wanted to die there, with Lancelot sleeping in his embrace. For it had seemed in those hours that nothing could touch them. It had seemed as if they had finally claimed peace, and no toil could plague them again.  
  
He could yet feel Lancelot's arms around. His own pain had faded, but his friend's love had not. It remained always, like Guinevere's. The tears lingered still also, and the words exchanged between them echoed in his mind. He had wanted to stay in Lancelot's embrace forever, those hours ago. And when Guinevere had shown him ecstasy, he had wished to die there too. Yet the moments always faded, as they are made to. Only his memories of them remained, woven into the fur and into his heart. Lancelot's arms still lingered, and Lancelot's hands still closed over his own – but would it matter in a few days time? When Lancelot had recovered, would he not return to his homeland? Would not his other knights follow? What would he do when they were gone? They were all he had in this world, with the exception of Guinevere. But even a lady could not suffice a man's need for companionship the way a friend could. He needed them all.  
  
Arthur inhaled sharply, pulling the fur tighter around himself. His eyes glinted at the smoke mist, and he wondered where the world had gone. He tried to picture Rome the way it was, not the way he wanted it to be, and he found that he could not bring himself to do it. How could he have been so foolish? How could he have believed for all of these years that his dream had been realized? He had been fighting for something that did not exist, and more importantly, he had led his knights to that same fight. Even with Lancelot's words in mind, he could not escape the guilt or his sense of failure. If his friend had not made it clear that no grudge was held against him, Arthur would have already drowned in his own despondency. He sighed restlessly, sleep failing to seduce his eyes and the cold numbing his face. Finding no peace in the open night, he decided to return below, where the remnants of warmth drifted through the narrow passages.  
  
He wondered if he was at all surprised that his feet had stopped at Lancelot's door. He had wandered through the dark until arriving at his comrade's room, though he could barely see the door in front of him, and he wasn't certain whether or not he should disturb the Sarmatian or not. Of course not, he chided himself instantly. Lancelot had just been critically wounded, for God's sake. He needed rest more than any man in the world, or at least, that was Arthur's exaggeration of the matter. He must've only left Lancelot a few hours ago, and now he was going to wake him up again? Did he even have a reason for being at his door in the first place? Arthur's eyes shifted over his boots for a minute, his silhouette looking like a great bear, what with his form enveloped in the fur. He was feeling increasingly silly by the moment and his conscience nagged for him to leave and return to Guinevere, who was most likely awake and confused as to why she was alone in the middle of the night.  
  
Arthur was suddenly in Lancelot's room, standing against the door. His conscience had retreated to a dark corner somewhere. As for Lancelot, he was clearly asleep and unmoving in the dark shape that Arthur knew to be the bed. For some reason, it seemed like the knight's room was blacker than Arthur's, and the Roman knew that if Lancelot were in any condition to be on his feet and he woke, the Sarmatian would have his captain swiftly disemboweled before he thought to light the candle. Arthur smiled. Lancelot was insufferably rash sometimes, not to mention impulsive and temperamental. Actually, a whole list of personality faults seemed to unravel in Arthur's head at that very moment, leaving the Roman grinning broadly in the dark. He had to keep himself from laughing out loud when Bors' voice came into his head, reminding him that for all of Lancelot's faults, he was still the prettiest. His stifled his snickering through pursed lips, a quiet snorting noise failing to be suppressed.  
  
Arthur collected himself, straightened against the door, and crept forward. His steps were careful and soundless, stopping when he felt the bedside table before his legs. After fumbling for a match, he struck it against the table and illuminated a patch of space around him with the little flame. He leaned over and lit the candle, the previously melted wax already dry in its strange shapes, and blew out the match to make a miniature smoke stack. Turning his head, his eyes fell upon Lancelot, who slept soundly in the same way Arthur had left him. The Roman smiled, struck helpless by this innocent side of Lancelot that was so rarely revealed. The Sarmatian looked positively harmless, as deceiving as that appearance was. He almost resembled an angel, Arthur contemplated. He blushed suddenly at his silliness. An angel? How old was he?  
  
But he did, Arthur thought, as he knelt on the floor again, his hand falling to Lancelot's curls and stroking anew. Lancelot wasn't like any other angel he had seen, Arthur continued. The Roman had seen young, virgin angels and child angels, martyr angels and depiction of saints. He had seen angels painted on walls and ceilings and domes, all belonging to the church. He had seen angels frozen in grace, cast in marble and gilded. All of them had been beautiful in their own way. Yet Lancelot was entirely different. The knight did not possess the same innocence as a child or the beauty of an untouched girl, nor was he as self- sacrificing as any of the historical martyrs and saints, although he was admirable in his own way. He wasn't exactly a man to be carved naked in stone, Arthur thought, almost sniggering. Yet as the Roman looked into the knight's face, stroking away at his black curls, he could not deny that something about Lancelot made him angelic at the moment. He was defenseless, Arthur noted, which was an extreme rarity with Lancelot. The knight never consciously allowed for vulnerability in himself. Arthur continued to gaze upon his friend, fondling Lancelot's hair affectionately. The Sarmatian breathed in audibly and moved into Arthur's touch as he shifted, sending a tender expression into the Roman's face.  
  
Yet something wasn't entirely right. Lancelot's brow knitted in the next moment, his eyes stirring behind their lids. Arthur noticed the knight's skin yet gleamed, and his hand moved to Lancelot's brow. The captain joined his friend in a troubled expression; Lancelot had not broken the fever. The Sarmatian did not ease but instead shifted, turning and breaking Arthur's contact to him. He uttered incoherent words and interrupted them with sounds, moving restlessly, and Arthur knew not what to do for a time except wait and watch.  
  
"Arthur," the knight muttered, tossing again.  
  
"I'm here, Lancelot," the captain replied quietly but to no avail. Lancelot continued to dream, his face contorted and void of the angelic quality Arthur had reminisced over. The Roman leaned in, waiting, and still Lancelot dreamt.  
  
"Arthur," he whimpered, his face now altered to fear and grief. He sounded so much like a child, it chilled the Roman. Lancelot's hands were squeezed into fists, gripping the thicket of blankets. "Arthur," he gasped and turned toward the captain, waking at last. "Arthur," he said again, surprised to see his friend at his side. He sat up without thinking and immediately grimaced, biting back a hiss of pain and laying his hand carefully over his wound.  
  
"Easy," the captain warned, taking Lancelot by the shoulders and laying him down again, his tone belying his concern. "It was only a dream." Lancelot was breathing fast, staring at Arthur steadily, as the captain fetched the rag out of the water bowl that sat on the table. After wringing it over the bowl, he began to cool the knight's face and neck. "You have not broken the fever," he murmured as he worked, not looking directly into Lancelot's intense gaze.  
  
"It was not a dream," Lancelot said. "It was a nightmare." Arthur looked to him, pausing his hand for a moment.  
  
"What about?" he asked. Lancelot looked away from him, ashamed and guilty.  
  
"The battle," he said. "The choice I made – to aid Guinevere instead of you." Arthur's gaze remained unmoving. "It began as it had in reality," Lancelot started. "But it did not end right. It was not I who died, but you. Because of my foolishness, you were slaughtered." His eyes had the same look that they had had the night before the battle, when Arthur had refused his pleas to turn away from it. "And I had to watch..." The knight choked, his eyes brimming again, his chest still heaving unsteadily.  
  
"It was only a nightmare," Arthur murmured again.  
  
"But you don't understand," Lancelot snapped, facing him again. "It could have happened. It could have happened that exact way. You could be dead because of me." He was worked up to the point of sitting again, his breathing quickening once more.  
  
"But I am not," Arthur uttered, eyeing him warily. Lancelot shouldn't be straining himself in this way, he knew. His breathing was dangerously sporadic and the anxiety could pressure his heart more than it could handle. He had to ease him. "I live. It did not happen as your dream played out. Everything's all right."  
  
"I betrayed you," Lancelot said, despair in his voice and his face.  
  
"How did you betray me by going to the aid of someone I love?" Arthur questioned.  
  
"I had to choose between the two of you," Lancelot began, panting. "I had to choose between a strange woman and my friend, and I left you to your own defense. I should be executed."  
  
"Don't be unreasonable," Arthur chided, his brow furrowing at Lancelot's last words. He started to cool the knight's face with the rag again, trying to push the image of killing Lancelot out of his mind. "You did what you thought was best. I can take care of myself, besides. Guinevere needed you."  
  
"Arthur, I'm scared," Lancelot said. The Roman looked up from his work, freezing. For his best friend to blatantly admit vulnerability was the equivalent of Guinevere resigning herself to the life of a traditional lady. "I'm scared for you." Lancelot's voice was a frightened whisper, his tears on the brink of falling. "I cannot forgive myself for my choice, and I'm scared that nightmare will manifest into reality one day because of my disloyalty."  
  
"Lancelot, that battle was no different than any other one we have fought over the last fifteen years. Each time, there is risk of death, you know that," Arthur reminded.  
  
"But in every other battle, I went to your side without question," Lancelot retorted, raising his voice dangerously. "I protected you with my life." Their eyes had merged and their pain was one. "But this time, I left you abandoned." His shoulders shook, and Arthur was deathly afraid his friend would pass out at any moment. He rose from his knees, set the bowl and rag aside, and seated himself on the bed, beside the pillow, and drew his fur skin up to the knight's neck. Taking Lancelot's head in his lap, with his right hand in the Sarmatian's curls, and his left drawn across his shuddering chest, settled on his shoulder, Arthur began to calm his friend. Lancelot lay still for the Roman, his tears finally falling from the corners of his eyes, and Arthur stroked over his hair soothingly.  
  
"You did not abandon me," he said. "You did the best thing you could've done. You saved Guinevere. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way."  
  
"You could've died," the knight whispered hoarsely, weeping soundlessly.  
  
"But I didn't," Arthur reminded. "Guinevere could have died, but you saved her. And in doing so, you saved me. You have nothing but pride to take in what you did." Lancelot repressed a sob, however, and turned his face into Arthur's lap, his arm hooked around the Roman's waist.  
  
"Arthur," he breathed, after a long moment of weeping. "I'm going to die."  
  
"No," the captain hissed, taking Lancelot's face in his hands and locking eyes with him. "You're healing already. You'll ride home in a week or two, in perfect condition." He prayed his own words were true.  
  
"I'm afraid," Lancelot whispered again, turning free from Arthur's hands and letting the Roman fondle his hair. "I'm going to die, Arthur. I can feel it."  
  
"Lancelot," the captain began, his brow knitted again.  
  
"I thought I didn't care whether or not I died, but I do," he cut his friend off. "I don't know if I want to go home or stay, I just don't want to die this way – slowly. I'm afraid." His voice was not that of the warrior Arthur had known for years, but of a boy that had been made to grow up too fast. His honesty was wounding, and Arthur found himself aching.  
  
"You will not die," he said, more certain than before. "I won't let you. I'll stay with you until you're completely healed if I have to. Whatever it is you need from me, I will gladly give it." His touch was comforting to Lancelot, who was slowly ceasing to weep and drift to sleep again, as Arthur's hands stroked over his hair and back.  
  
"Arthur," he said after a long while. "Will you forget me when we part?"  
  
"Of course not," Arthur replied honestly. "You know I never could."  
  
"I don't want to part," Lancelot said sleepily, his eyes drooping closed.  
  
"I know," Arthur said. "I don't wish it either." He stared blankly ahead, lost in thought as his hands soothed Lancelot without yielding. "Follow me," he said absently, only receiving a murmuring sound from the knight. "Follow me to wherever I go. Stay with Guinevere and I." Lancelot did not answer, for he was on the edge of sleep, though he vaguely heard his captain's words. "I know it is selfish of me," Arthur continued. "I should not ask this of you or any of the other knights. You have all waited to go home long enough. But I cannot help but want you all to stay."  
  
"Will you stay with me?" Lancelot mumbled, his eyes closed. Arthur did not push his proposition again. He only forced a smile and kept up his ministrations.  
  
"I will," he said. "Sleep, now." Lancelot nuzzled into Arthur's leg in reply, before surrendering to a dreamless sleep, and Arthur leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes just until Lancelot was wholly asleep...  
  
Yet when he opened his eyes again, the candle had burned out, and Guinevere sat across the small room with a lantern faintly glowing. When he met her eyes, he straightened, his eyes widening in a surprise. Surely, she would begrudge him for leaving her in bed, he thought. But the Woad only smiled.  
  
"Good morning," she said, her tone indicating that she was quite pleased with herself. Her hair was somewhat unruly, obviously unattended to this far. The hem of her green night gown peeked out from the fur skin wrapped around her own shoulders, and sleep still lingered in her face.  
  
"Guinevere, forgive me, I did not mean to leave and not return, but," Arthur began rambling, sitting up further and shifting Lancelot. Guinevere, however, hushed him silent.  
  
"You'll wake him," she said, her eyes twinkling. She smiled, and Arthur eventually grinned back. After a moment, Guinevere stood, lantern in hand, and swept toward Arthur. She kissed him deeply for a long breath, before breaking away and giving one last smile as she left. All Arthur needed to do was see Lancelot through healing, and he would have all he desired in life. His hands moved up to caress Lancelot's curls as he looked down into them. All he needed was to see Lancelot through.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Yay! Chapter 4! I think this is pretty okay....Some certain spots of fluff I am particular to....And there's a cliffhanger....Hee....Anyway, hope you all like this, please R/R! I recently wrote another KA one-shot entitled _**I Want Tomorrow**_ and a poem entitled _**The Green Hills**_, so check those out if you haven't already. Does anyone know when the KA soundtrack comes out in the USA? It seems like it hasn't yet, all I've been listening to are sound clips of the net... Beautiful, it sounds, though....Especially the theme song: **Tell Me Now (What You See)** by Moya Brennan...Can anyone with the CD kindly provide me with the lyrics, please? I so desperately want them.... Anyway....thank you again, all!

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Chapter 4When Lancelot's eyes fluttered open, he was met with Arthur's face, and the Roman smiled. His head was still in Arthur's lap, and the captain was yet cooling his face with the rag. Lancelot felt hotter and more tired than before, too disoriented to worry or inquire about his condition. His eyes rolled slowly, as he shifted, realizing Arthur's hand was still cupped over his shoulder. He took a breath and his chest rose into Arthur's arm, making the knight feel steady. He absent-mindedly bent his arm and lay his hand over Arthur's, moving his head in attempts to cool his neck. He was too hot.  
  
"Hello," Arthur said, cheerfully, moving the rag over Lancelot's skin again.  
  
"Arthur," the knight murmured, his head titled toward Arthur's arm.  
  
"How are you feeling?" the Roman asked, stroking his friend's brow with the rag delicately.  
  
"It's hot," Lancelot said, his eyes closed again. He was exhausted, so deeply that it kept him from falling back asleep completely. The heat nearly overwhelmed him, but Arthur was a comfort to him.  
  
"I am trying to cool you," Arthur said, his tone as quiet as Lancelot's, his head bowed to always look upon his friend. "Your fever has deepened." His eyes were soft in their gaze, matching his face and the way his whole body fell into place, holding Lancelot. He had decided after Guinevere's departure that he would not leave Lancelot's side for anything, not until the knight began to recover. His lady had brought him meals periodically, staying for a while each time to keep him company. She understood his attachment to Lancelot and the importance of the Sarmatian's recovery. Even as she watched Arthur comfort his unconscious friend, love burned in her eyes and heart, for she discovered the Roman warrior had a tender side, making him all the more attractive as a man. He was more than grateful to her for her understanding and support. If he had only known his jewel of a woman belonged to the Woads, perhaps he would have been more careful in killing them. He grinned. Probably not.  
  
Lancelot made a sound through his closed lips, so close to sleep yet not unaware of Arthur's touch. His body felt like it was filled with lead, like every move he made would drain him entirely of energy. Some part of him, the boyish part of him that had been saved from corruption by war, feared he would fall through the bed and the floor and the earth, if Arthur left his side. He wanted to cling to his friend, but he could scarcely move his head without feeling powerless, let alone roll on to his stomach and gather fistfuls of the Roman's clothes in his hands. He could only make a muffled sound, when he wanted to plead with his captain to stay, and Arthur worried. He knew his friend's strength was waning. He could not despair, however. Lancelot needed him, and for his knight, he would have to take heart and be strong. The Sarmatian had never failed him before, even on the battle field days before, and Arthur could lose hope and believe he would now. Lancelot would make it through. He had to. Arthur couldn't live without him.  
  
The Roman looked up from Lancelot's face when the door opened with a click, revealing Galahad from the outside world. His youngest knight wore apprehension on his face, and Arthur could too easily tell that he was worried that he was intruding. Arthur, however, only gave a weary smile. Galahad stood only halfway into the room, the light from the corridor shining on his other half. He had washed himself, the Roman observed, but had apparently failed to tidy his hair. Arthur wondered where Gawain was, for Galahad was hardly ever out of his best friend's presence. Yet the youngest of his knights was undoubtedly alone now. Arthur dropped his gaze back to Lancelot, his strokes gentle enough that they drew Galahad's attention. The Sarmatian's eyes rested on his captain's hand for a long moment, shining in absence of words, before moving up the Roman's face. Galahad had not witnessed Arthur's tender side this way before. Each of the knights had seen the Roman's compassion, but only in times like these, in the dire and the solitary, did Arthur shed his armor to expose his sensitive flesh. He was man now and no longer a Roman officer. Just a man, caring for his friend. Galahad watched for as long as he felt was polite, eyes eventually returning to Arthur's hand and Lancelot's troubled face.  
  
"How are the others?" Arthur asked quietly, in a tone Galahad had scarcely heard from him. The knight looked to his captain's face again, brought out of observant reverie.  
  
"Fine," he replied, somewhat absently. "Bors is well, and Gawain is only sore in places." Arthur looked up at him, a knowing light in his eyes.  
  
"He was wounded?" the Roman inquired.  
  
"Only a bit," Galahad confirmed. "He's all sewed up now, and we found some brandy to ease ourselves. He'll be fine." The knight almost spoke to himself, a tinge of worry in his voice and his fallen eyes. Arthur only stared at him a minute longer.  
  
"He will," Arthur reassured his knight, and his eyes returned to Lancelot. Galahad was silent for a time, eyes unmoving from where they had fallen, as he thought.  
  
"He asked after Lancelot," he said. "Gawain did. He's been worried for a while now. He saw Lance on the battlefield." Galahad's eyes had met Arthur's once more, fear hovering within them. He had taken Lancelot's limp body from the Arthur's arms back to the wall, but he had not had the displeasure of seeing Lancelot dead for those few moments, still and cold on the ground. Gawain had, however. His friend had been unsettled ever since. He said to Galahad that it wasn't just the way Lancelot had looked, but the way Arthur had wept.  
  
"Tell him he'll be fine," Arthur said, louder than before. "If he wants to come see him, he's welcome to." His fingers were untiring, wrapped in the damp rag and moving in the same path over and over. Galahad could see a sudden change in his captain's mood, a darkness. The way Arthur looked at Lancelot unnerved him – it was a almost a hopeless look.  
  
"Is that why you came?" Arthur asked, gaze fixed on Lancelot.  
  
"No," Galahad denied. "I came of my own accord. I wanted to see him for myself." He had long since shut the door behind him but had not come any closer to the bed.  
  
"And how does he look to you?" Arthur questioned. His tone was almost bitter. Galahad's eyes rested on Lancelot's face, a face that was clearly fevered and troubled, one of a man who was beyond the waking world.  
  
"Ill," Galahad answered, yet staring upon his wounded comrade.  
  
"Yes," Arthur said resentfully. "Ill." Galahad said nothing in return, for he knew not what was right to say. "Ill because he is wounded," Arthur continued. "Wounded because he fought my battle." His tone wad completely embittered now, though his manner in stroking Lancelot had not changed from its tenderness. "He fought my battle out of loyalty to me, and this is where its brought him," Arthur raged, his tone dangerously bordering a shout. " He's dying because of me," he admitted blatantly. "Because I'm his friend," his tone faded, but Galahad could not see the sprouted tears yet. "I am his friend, and yet I did not make him leave. I did not tell him to turn back. I did not speak a word to any of you. Tristan is dead now, and Lancelot will join him." He had cut himself open before Galahad's eyes, releasing the guilt and sorrow that had been festering within since the battle's end. Galahad could find no words again, as he watched his captain begin weep.  
  
"We are free men," Galahad finally said. "We joined you of our own free will." Arthur's tears did not cease, and he shuddered back a sob. He could not longer see Lancelot's face clearly, and he was moistening the rag.  
  
"Lancelot would not have left your side for anything. He would not have listened, had you told him to go home. You know that." His voice was quiet, a murmur that seemed to belong to another man. His eyes glimmered, staring at Lancelot.  
  
"Tristan died the death he wanted. He was a knight. What else was he made for, but to fight?" Arthur stifled a whimper, tears falling into the curves of Lancelot's eyes and sliding down his friend's face, as if they were his.  
  
"His hawk never truly left him, though it would fly, until he informed it that it was free. What makes you think any of us are any different?" Galahad questioned, not expecting an answer.  
  
"The same goes for all of us. It has been fifteen years, Arthur. We know no other life. I have wanted home most desperately, and even I must admit to that truth." Arthur had stopped stroking Lancelot's brow, too overwhelmed with grief and regret to do anything but weep and grip Lancelot's shoulder.  
  
"We returned to you because our horses stirred," Galahad confessed. "Because we are men, and therefore have hearts. You have been our captain all this time and our friend. Even with the door let loose, we could not leave the cage so soon." Arthur's sobs now filled the room without restraint, and Galahad was too immersed in his own words to realize the burning in his own eyes.  
  
"Not when that cage belonged to a man who carved love into the bars."  
  
"I condemned you all to death," Arthur shouted at him, and Lancelot only slept on because the fever would not loosen its grip. The captain had snapped his head up at his former knight, face red with tears.  
  
"Every man chooses when to leave this earth," Galahad said. "We choose whether to fight or whether to surrender. You are a solider as much as any of us. How could you not know that by now? When we lie in the place between the two worlds, as Lancelot lies in your arms now, it is the man's decision, whether he will fight to live or submit to the death that calls him. It was our choice to follow you into the battle against the Saxons."  
  
"Whether it be your choice or no, it is I who led you to this fate," Arthur argued, his anger turned to guilty despair again. "I let you each become attached, and I made the same mistake myself."  
  
"What could you possibly be saying?" Galahad questioned incredulously, bordering anger. He stepped forward in his enthusiasm, his brow knit in confusion. "You say that because both you and your knights grew to care about each other that you are at some kind of fault?"  
  
"It was that attachment that led you all to come back," Arthur confirmed, gasping for breath in his tears. "It was that attachment that caused me to want my knights to come back, no matter how selfish of me it was. It is that attachment that brought Tristan and Dagonet to their deaths and leads Lancelot on now." His face crumbled alike his heart, when he mentioned the Sarmatian in his lap.  
  
"Tristan and Dagonet were killed by the Saxons," Galahad exclaimed. "How could you believe that you are responsible for that? And Lancelot yet lives. Do you now lose hope? Do you know lose faith in him? The one who knows you best?" Galahad was angry now, not to mention frustrated, and he had nothing to restrain him from blatant self- expression.  
  
"Look at him," Arthur yelled. "Look at him, Galahad." The young Sarmatian's eyes glinted in angry disbelief but lowered enough to gaze upon his fallen comrade. "He's dying," Arthur said, his heart ripping as he did so. Lancelot was deep in slumber, the fever shining in his face with a visible heat, since Arthur had stopped cooling him. "My Lancelot is dying," he murmured, caressing the knight's face and black locks with sorrow. His friend's flesh burned his hands, and yet he would torch his own heart if only soothe Lancelot, if only to give the knight what strength he had left so that he may live.  
  
"Lancelot is free," Galahad whispered. "He is a free man. He will choose his own fate. But if you have already forsaken hope, what reason does he have to come back? You cannot despair, Arthur." His tears were on the verge of spilling down his face, and his knuckles were white in his grip of the bedpost. "You must be strong."  
  
"I know," Arthur whispered, bowing his head. "I know. It's just hard to see any hope when I look into his face." His fingers drifted over Lancelot's brow like a ghost, and his eyes glimmered in their stare. "My guilt shall have to be dealt with some other time. For now, I must do you as say. I must be strong." His hand tightened around Lancelot's shoulder, and he looked up at his former knight. "Forgive me, Galahad. I strayed into sorrow needlessly."  
  
"Nay," said Galahad. "No sorrow of ours is needless. But we cannot allow it to cloud our hope now. We must see Lancelot through. Once he has returned, we may confront our despair." His hands were loose again. His eyes were unmoving from Lancelot, who slept unaware of his presence. Galahad waited only a moment, before moving to sit beside his comrade, in what space Arthur left. The young Sarmatian reached out to touch Lancelot's curls and rested there for a long breath, bringing tears to his eyes despite his words of hope. Slowly, his hand ran back, pushing Lancelot's hair away from his face. Arthur looked up at him, not knowing what to say. Galahad, however, leaned toward him and clapped his hand on the captain's shoulder, managing a smile.  
  
A few hours later, Guinevere arrived again, bringing fresh bandages and healing remedies for Lancelot. The Sarmatian had not improved since Galahad's visit, and the lady hoped what she had brought would help cleanse his system of the poison that coated the tip of the arrow. She hung her lantern above the table, as Arthur cleared it off and blew out the candle. Reaching into her satchel, she produced several glass bottles and three pouches, creating an array of color. Arthur hovered about her anxiously, awaiting her instruction, and Galahad mirrored him at the foot of the bed. Standing at the bedside, Guinevere looked silently down into Lancelot's face for a moment, before lowering the hood of her cloak and speaking in a low tone.  
  
"We must re-bandage his wound," she said. "We'll unwrap his chest, cleanse it with the water, coat the wound with a mixture of herbs, and wrap it anew. I also have something for him to drink." Both men listened attentively, and Galahad glanced at the bottles. Woad healing remedies? On Lancelot? If it had been any other Woad, he would have said something against it, but not Arthur's Guinevere. Not with the way she fought....  
  
Arthur returned to his place on the bed and lifted Lancelot's limp body to sit, his grip firm on the knight's shoulders to prevent him from falling forward. Guinevere took care of the work, carefully unwrapping the bandages once Arthur had pulled Lancelot's tunic off. She bundled them in a rag, as Galahad winced at the sight of the wound from his place at Lancelot's feet. The gash was sewn up well enough, but it was outlined in purple and green, appearing sticky where it was starting to scab around the stitches. Guinevere interrupted his goggling when she reached out to him, and he realized she was after the rag. The Sarmatian wrung it over the water bowl in his lap, everything from a few hours before having been replaced, and handed it to her. Gently, she began to dab at the wound, only provoking a slight twitch from Lancelot, whose head was lolling back. She continued to clean it until she was satisfied and grabbed the biggest bottle on the table next to her. Uncorking it with a pop, she put the rim to the bundled cloth and tilted it for a mere second, before setting at Arthur's feet. Lancelot stirred when she pressed it to the wound and let it soak in.  
  
"Ale from the stores," she said, focused on the rag.  
  
"Bors is going to be happy at that," Galahad muttered, and Arthur grinned. "In fact, I wouldn't mind a bit of ale, myself. Gawain's been moaning, and I think it's because he hasn't drunk anything in the past two days."  
  
"Were all of your men such avid drinkers, captain?" Guinevere asked, dabbing at the wound with the ale-stained cloth. Arthur opened his mouth to answer, grin unfailing, but Galahad cut him off.  
  
"Actually, Arthur never drank nearly as much as us knights, though he'll have a round or two in our company. Drunkeness would compromise his nobility, you see." Galahad smirked cleverly, and Arthur could not help but grin, though he rolled his eyes. Guinevere shared in the silent gesture.  
  
"I suppose that's good to know," she said. "Though I was hoping for a fair partner." Galahad laughed aloud at this, despite himself, and Guinevere grinned to herself as she stopped dabbing and motioned for Arthur to lower Lancelot.  
  
"Yes, you see," Guinevere started, as her fingers prodded the bottles carefully. "I've had a fair bit of practice with drinking amongst my people, and though I could not abide a drunkard husband, it would have been refreshing to have a man who was a real challenge to beat."  
  
"Well, my lady," Galahad said merrily. "Since Arthur isn't quite the opponent you're looking for, I would be happy to oblige in competing with you, and I know Bors would find it good fun."  
  
"I'm lucky, then," she said, picking one of the red bottles. "And what of Lancelot? Is he another drinking man?"  
  
"I'm afraid he takes after Arthur when it comes to that," Galahad replied. "He drinks more than Arthur, but he isn't one to deliberately get drunk on a nightly basis, unlike some of us." He was grinning, Lancelot's condition almost lifted from his heart.  
  
"So he won't be joining us then. 'Tis a shame. But I can assure you he'll be wailing after something to drink once he wakes up," she warned and dabbed the wound with a new corner of the damp cloth that had been soaked in the red bottle solution. Lancelot jerked a bit and groaned quietly, trapped in slumber, and Arthur hushed him, his shoulder cradling the knight's head. Lancelot's muscles gleamed in the light of Guinevere's lantern, rippling in his torso and carved out in his arms like those belonging to a Greek statue. Scars decorated his flesh but only sparsely, for they were mostly scattered on his back. The arrow's gash was nestled right below his left breast and next to the bottom of his heart. Galahad noted the scars quietly, comparing them with his own. He remembered each battle that had dealt Lancelot each scar, and he tried to remember the ones on his friend's back. Arthur's arm was drawn across Lancelot's chest again, against the collarbone, holding his friend against him as Guinevere worked. Lancelot's slow breaths filled his ear, since the Sarmatian's head rested on his shoulder. He pondered his friend's scars as well, remembering the battle from whence they came and the ones he had tended to himself or had helped Lancelot tend to, when his friend had been too stubborn to be completely cared for.  
  
Guinevere had gone through three more bottles, each a different color, and now began meticulously wrapping Lancelot's torso in new bandages. Galahad was watching the way his Sarmatian brother breathed, while Arthur felt every breath and beat against him. He closed his eyes for a long moment, as Guinevere worked, shutting out everything but Lancelot's breathing and heartbeat and feeling those with all of his senses. After a minute, he realized he had fallen into rhythm with Lancelot, and they were breathing as one being. Their hearts were beating as one, just as emotionally, they might be said to share one because of their closeness. Arthur took in the scent of Lancelot's curls near him and felt Lancelot's skin beneath his fingertips, a scar slipping under his hand that started from the back of the knight's shoulder and curved over it to the top of his arm. He had never felt so connected to Lancelot before, almost as close as he felt to Guinevere when they made love. It was intimate. It almost scared Arthur to connect with Lancelot that way, but most of him was left breathless by the feeling. Being intimate with a lover and being intimate with a friend were too completely different things, and he wasn't sure which was more amazing. He had known Guinevere for little more than a few weeks, and yet he had reached passionate intimacy with her a few days ago, to repeat their actions last night. He had known Lancelot for fifteen years and felt as if this was the first time he was really under the knight's skin and with him, instead of just near him. His free hand moved to grip Lancelot's, and Guinevere smiled to herself when she noticed and pinned the bandages in place.  
  
"All right, then," she said. "That should be it, save for the draught I made him." Instead of reaching back at the table, she slid her hand into her satchel and pulled out a small bottle. Uncorking it, she placed it at Lancelot's lips and tipped it carefully. A bit of it dripped down his chin from the corner of his mouth, but he began to unconsciously swallow afterward. She gave him the whole bottle, and once it was empty, slipped Lancelot's tunic back on as Arthur continued to hold him. Galahad watched silently all the while, until the door burst open, earning three head snaps toward it. Gawain was heaving in the doorway, haste in his eyes. Galahad's had widened, and he immediately strode to his friend's side, Gawain leaning against him in the same instant.  
  
"Saxons," the knight gasped. "Back from the dead." 


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Yay! Chapter 5! This isn't as long as I had hoped when I starte dout, but I like the place I cut off at….I have a good opening for the next chapter in mind already…Hehe…

Hope you enjoy this, please R/R. If you have not already read and reviewed **_Free From You_** and **_See Freedom_**, my 2 latest King Arthur fics, please go do so. It would really mean allot to me. Thank you so much, readers and reviewers! You know I love you….Hehe…Just another reminder: **NO SLASH!!**

I'm now writing most, if not all my King Arthur stuff to the sountrack, and track 7: _All of Them!_ in particular. If you have the soundtrack, listen to that when reading this. Yeah…

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Chapter 5

"What do you speak of?" Arthur questioned, looking sharply up at Gawain. The knight leaned against Galahad, who was pinned against the door-post by his friend's weight. The way the two knights were standing was testimony to their bond, Gawain's chest against Galahad's, Galahad's hand gripping Gawain's arm, their faces close. Gawain's chest heaved in Galahad's, his breath coming in labored pants. Arthur had not been told the extent of his knight's injuries, but he assumed it was enough to distress him now, after running.

"They have returned," Gawain replied. "Like ghosts, they approach the wall from the outside. I cannot tell if they are armed or how many come, for the mists have settled." Galahad's brow creased at this news, and he looked to his commander along with his closest friend. Gawain continued to gasp and finally gave up on standing upright, sagging against Galahad, who gripped him by both arms now.

"They must seek revenge," Galahad said, holding fast to Gawain. "For what other purpose would those people come? To few of us remain, Arthur. The Woads cannot have our help this time." He and Arthur stared at each other for a pause. "I will go," Galahad continued. "I will ride out against them, and Bors with me. But Gawain, I cannot allow to leave this Wall." Gawain suddenly looked up into Galahad's eyes.

"Galahad," he started in protest.

"No, Gawain," Galahad interrupted. "You have protected me long enough. Now it is time I protect you." Gawain's face fell in defeat, still relying on his younger friend to support him.

"I have protected you, Galahad," Gawain replied. "Because if not me, than who? Would you dare tell me now that you ride to death deliberately?" Despair laced his voice, and his eyes glinted. Guinevere turned away at the knights' intimate moment, but Arthur watched with no small pain. They were too much like he and Lancelot.

"Would you dare tell me now, after all this time, after we have been freed, you would force me to ride home without you?" Gawain queried, when Galahad did not answer but with a grieved stare.

"I cannot promise you my life," Galahad said. "All I can say is that I ride when the Lady Guinevere's people need aiding. I ride to kill the Saxons who took Tristan from us, and Dagonet." His eyes glinted painfully. "And who endangers Lancelot."

"Do you not think I know that pain?" Gawain said. "If this is your motive, than it is mine as well, and I should ride out with you."

"You know you would not live through it," Galahad argued. "You are in no condition for a battle with the Saxons. To mount a horse would cause you pain, whether you deny that for your pride or not." Gawain's head had dropped and he looked to the floor. Galahad looked back to Arthur.

"Bors and I will go," he said. "If the lady would have two more Sarmatian knights amongst her people." He shifted gaze to Guinevere, who nodded, eyes glimmering. Galahad inclined his head to Arthur shortly, before pushing Gawain up and disappearing beyond the door. Guinevere and Arthur locked eyes. Neither spoke a word for a moment, but the Woad knew what lay in her lover's mind.

"I can't leave him again," the Roman told her. Her gaze floated down to Lancelot's unmoving face and back to Arthur's pleading eyes.

"I know," she said, finally. She stepped toward him, gown quivering, and took his face in her hands. He closed his eyes when she kissed him, and a twinge of distress struck his heart. Though he loved her, he could not leave Lancelot again. He could not see her into battle, and though she was a warrior of true merit, he feared for her.

She straightened and kept their stare for a minute longer, before turning away and going for the door. He bowed his head as he waited for the sound of the door closing, but it did not come before she peered back at him.

"I love you," she breathed, her eyes twinkling. "And a good warrior never abandons his own." Understanding passed between them, and she left him alone with Lancelot's fevered body. He looked to his friend once more, caressing the black curls as he had so many times before.

"You can't leave me now," he whispered. "I'm not leaving you." The candle flame sputtered, and Arthur knew Guinevere was shedding her gown for leather, pinning her hair up, and painting her body blue. Even in Lancelot's room, with the knight sleep in his lap, Arthur could see her preparing in his mind's eye. Her limbs were familiar to him already, and she suddenly had that look in her eyes. Whether she lived or died, she would not be defeated. Ferocity now replaced grace in the Woad, and she was the woman he had first met in a Roman dungeon.

"I love you too," he murmured to emptiness. She made sure the leather was snug against her breast and secure around her hips. She sheathed several blades about her waist and against her legs, looking narrowly to the outside. Her skin was tainted blue in name of her gods, and she had both ax and knife in hand. Who would have thought she would fall in love with a Roman, the man who had killed so many of her people?

"The heart chooses strange things," Merlin said, appearing at her side. He was already prepared for the fight. Though his brow was creased and loomed over his eyes with age, he had not stopped battling for his people.

"You knew," she said, looking to him. "You knew in the forest that he was not only meant to help us in this fight." He stared at her almost wearily, but she was not fooled by it into thinking he was an incapable fighter.

"Why do you think you survived in that dungeon?" the wizard presented.

"I am a warrior. My strength and endurance is not that of an ordinary maiden," she replied hotly. He only smiled sagely at her, peering at her from beneath his brow.

"Purpose sees people through any hell, until that purpose is fulfilled," he said. "That is why people live when they feel as if all their tolerance for suffering is spent. It is not their will. It is the goddess. You were meant for that Roman. That is all." Merlin turned away from her and left, vanishing into the mists. She did not follow at once but paused to think on his words. If it was her life purpose to wed a man, Arthur of Rome and Britain….If that was the task the goddess had set before her, then she knew no Saxon could claim her. Her hands roamed her own body, over the blue she bore in honor of the goddess, and she knew.

When she slipped in at the head of her warriors, Merlin nearby, she saw Bors and Galahad were already mounted on their horses before them. They would be first to meet the Saxons once the gate was opened – the first in a battle not their own. Their faces were set in stern concentration, Galahad's especially. He was no older than she was, yet he had a sobriety to accompany his fire that she didn't fully understand. She knew Gawain's words were heavy on his heart.

"Why have you come?" Galahad called out, his tone commanding and belying his age. She could easily picture him as Arthur's successor, if ever the Roman fell. His words reverberated within the archway they lingered in, just behind the gates.

"You have slain our leader and his son," a Saxon voice answered. "You've taken a land that is rightfully ours. Why do you think we've come, you Roman bastard?"

" There is no Roman here," Galahad replied, gritting his teeth. "Only the children of the land you seek to steal and their friends."

"It was Arthur, that myth and god-like legend that defeated us days ago," the Saxon said impatiently.

"Aye, but he does not stand here today," the knight said.

"Then who are you to speak unto us?" the voice questioned haughtily.

"Galahad, knight of Sarmatia," he lashed out at them. "And should you make the foolish choice of not turning back, the Woads will have my aid in your slaughter."

"Another foreigner helping these savages?" the Saxon answered incredulously. "What is it about the blue people that has the world at their side?"

"You have not made clear what it is you have decided," Galahad hissed, almost too quiet to be heard by the enemy.

"Come out from hiding, boy," the Saxon grunted. Galahad's brow knitted with furious spite, and he brandished his sword, followed by Bors. The Woads at their backs stirred audibly and readied themselves. Galahad ordered the gates open, and two daunted guards obeyed. As the bars fell away, the mists seem to move before them, and Galahad only glared out for a minute, before yelling and charging forth. Into the fog, the warriors leapt, the two knights on horseback breaking through first. On they charged, like slow glory, Galahad's blade glinting when it caught the light, and Bors' bellow echoing in the land as he rode ax raised above his head. Guinevere did not hear her own cry until she collided with the first of the Saxons, and everything suddenly became clear.

Arthur gasped and snapped his head up. Foreboding had bolted through him. He could hear nothing, though he listened eagerly. Not even the candle flame sounded where it hovered on its wick. Though he was well inside the Wall, it was the battle that preoccupied his thoughts most of all, even more than Lancelot. How was it faring beyond? Did Guinevere yet live? Did Galahad and Bors still fight? Where were they? His thoughts then turned to Gawain. How much more was his knight distressed than he was, alone in his room, when his best friend fought? Arthur had never waited like this, never in fifteen years. He was always the one to lead his men into the fray, always the first to offer himself in battle. He had never known the waiting was this tortuous. Were this how the women felt whenever it was their husband or son or lover fighting? Were the quiet hours of safety this hard to bear? He suddenly understood why Guinevere was not one of those women who waited.

"But I do not regret it," he muttered to Lancelot's sleeping face. "I do not regret staying with you instead. You need me, I know." His hand stroked over Lancelot's curls, and he looked on his friend as he had for the last few days. "Do you not see, Lancelot?" he asked quietly. "Do you not see the truth? It is I who needs _you_. This is where every battle has led. This is what those fifteen years were for, all the blood and lives I've taken. It was for this moment, when I was made to choose between that life and this love, when I turned my back on it for the first time." His hand ran up the side of Lancelot's face, starting from the knight's jawbone. As it reached Lancelot's curls, the Sarmatian arched into his touch with a sharp intake of breath. His dark eyes suddenly lifted open and stared up into Arthur's face, as he sunk back down.

"Lancelot," the Roman breathed.

Guinevere's cry tore through the air, as she spun about with blade and ax cutting through Saxon flesh. For the second time within the week, her world was a blur of mist and blue and chaos. She had lost track of her two knight companions and only hoped to the goddess that they yet lived – for Arthur's sake. His name was like the wind in her mind, even as she fought. She clung to the memory of his face, his voice, his eyes, and his touch. She remembered making love to him, as she moved faster than any creature of her race, like an animal or a myth. She flung her head back and hissed in pain as a blade tore through her back, and she could see Arthur kissing her through closed eyes. Fiercely, she swiped outward at the nearest Saxon with her hand ax, and her head snapped to the other side when she switched to her knife. She could barely feel the blood sliding down her back and the paint seeping into her wound. Was the goddess watching? Was Arthur thinking of her?

Galahad had not lost his scowl from the gate and fought on, killing as many Saxons as he could, as fast his body would move. He only just differentiated between Woads and Saxons, for so deep was his fervor, his sight was blurred. He knew not where Bors or Guinevere was but had to believe they yet lived. _For Arthur's sake, you damn well better be alive, milady. _He was on the battle's edge, using both sword and knife. His thoughts inevitably turned to Gawain, and he refused to lose heart as he thought of what distress his friend must have been currently suffering, locked away in his room. But Galahad could not have let him ride out and fight. Though the young Sarmatian longed for Gawain to fight by his side, he knew that the other knight was in no condition to do so. He would rather ache after his friend than lose Gawain to the Saxon beasts. And though he did not fear death, Galahad hoped he would make it back to the Wall. He had too much life to live, and he didn't want to wait for Gawain in the next life just yet.

Blood was heavy on the air, and the mist had mingled with smoke to shroud the battle in gray. Now Saxon bodies would litter both sides of the Wall, instead of just one. Too many Woads lay slaughtered on the soil of their homeland, but Guinevere and Merlin both knew there would always be more of them to fight for their freedom. Guinevere knew she would remain in her people's defense for many years to come, and her sons and daughters would be left after – Arthur's children. Children born of warriors.

The sun was breaking through the clouds on the horizon, but the sky was still heavy with gloom to mirror the smoke of the land. Galahad could only just see the hem of the sun's tapestry, glowing through every thread of cloud and shining golden in his eyes. He dared the beams to show him red, too bold for a mortal altogether. But Galahad had always been too bold. Gawain could have testified to that.

"I'm not going home," Lancelot murmured unto Arthur, who could only look into the black pools of the Sarmatian's eyes in befuddlement. "I'm staying on this damn island with you, Arthur. I choose to run these hills after I pass into the next life. I'm not saying farewell." Arthur only smiled.

"Victory," Galahad said softly, standing amongst still bodies. Bors approached from behind, steps heavy and weary. The mists encircled them but were starting to fade. The sun was breaking through.

"Damn it all, you're still alive," Bors lamented. Galahad smiled.

"And so are you," he said, without turning around to look at his comrade.

" Too bad, I was looking forward to seeing the look on Gawain's face when I told him his lover lad had been won out by a Saxon dog," the older warrior said.

"And now, I'll have to kill you," Galahad answered, whipping around and chasing Bors over the bodies, both of them running toward the gate.

Lancelot suffered to sit up, without Arthur's aid, and turned to face his captain. Their eyes locked and glinted in the meager light of the candle. Lancelot clapped his hand on Arthur's shoulder and paused, but Arthur reached up and lay his hand over Lancelot's cheek. The Sarmatian parted his lips to say something, but only ended up falling to lay his head on Arthur's empty shoulder. The Roman hooked his arm around his friend's back and bowed his head into Lancelot's shoulder.

"You kept your promise," Lancelot murmured, eyes on the candle flame.

"Aye," Arthur confirmed. "I did not leave your side all through your fevered sleep." He could feel Lancelot's heartbeat, breath, and words through his hand on the knight's back.

"Would you have me ride home?" Lancelot asked, despite his former declaration.

"You are free, Lancelot," Arthur said. "I would have you do whatever your hearts bids." The pair of dark eyes filled with unshed tears.

Merlin plodded toward Guinevere from behind, while she stood staring at the motionless bodies painted blue, wondering if she had known them because she could not see their faces. With ax and knife still in hand and her arms relaxed at her sides, she looked almost weary or defeated in her stance. She sensed him stop behind her, knowing he was looking at her from beneath his sagging brow.

"You're wounded," he reminded, nonchalantly. Guinevere smirked.

"I know," she said. Galahad and Bors reached the gate, whilst the two Woads stood among the remnants of their fight against the finally defeated Saxons.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Yay! Chapter 6! I gave myself a few days break, and hopefully it paid off with this. Thank you so much to all of my wonderful, magnificent readers and reviewers! I love you all! You really make my life worthwhile. I only hope my writing is enough for you. I think this chapter will please a few of my reviewers in particular… Hehe. Glad to do it. I would like to remind that while the reader may interpret a fic any way they want, this fanfiction was **not intended to be slash. That means NO Arthur/Lancelot or Galahad/Gawain in the sense that there is romance and/or sexual attraction. But again, the reader is free to interpret it any way they want, but it was not intended. **Oh yes…. And this is another evil cliffhanger at the end. Hee hee. If you have not, please go R/R my latest KA oneshot: **Hate You.** It's a cute little thing…. Anyway, enjoy this! Please Read and Review!!! I've been babbling for too long….

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Chapter 6

Gawain lifted his head when the sound of the door opening interrupted his grievous thoughts. Pain and guilt had wearied him, mistakenly giving his face an older appearance. His eyes were narrow with sorrow, yet when he looked up, light opened them again. Only halfway through the crack, Galahad lingered tentatively, uncertainty in his visage. The injured knight rose, like the sun in the dawn, his slumped shoulders returning to their proud and cheerful stature. His lips could only twitch at the corners, and Galahad neither moved nor spoke. The young knight waited in the door, almost as if he doubted Gawain would want him back.

"Galahad," Gawain said, nearly in a tone implying disbelief and joyous question. Galahad looked to the floorboards with a smile, as Gawain got to his feet and approached him eagerly. Galahad did not need more than a second to leave the door and meet his friend halfway. They embraced, with Gawain holding fast to his young companion in overwhelming relief.

"Gods," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Nay," Galahad said. "I'm still here, though Bors isn't too happy about it." Gawain managed a chuckle, but no mistake could be made about the tears in his eyes. He could breathe again, after his agonizing wait. He stepped back from his friend, hands firmly grasping Galahad's shoulders.

"I take it we won?" he asked. Galahad only gave a single nod, and Gawain broke into a grin, as he cupped Galahad's neck snugly and beamed. After a moment, he ruffled Galahad's mop of curls and headed toward the door.

"Come on, then," he beckoned.

"Where are we going?" Galahad asked softly, traces of mirth playing on his lips.

"Why, to celebrate of course," Gawain replied. "I'm almost certain Bors has some ale he hasn't been sharing." Galahad scoffed and shook his head, before following Gawain out into the corridor.

"Bors made out all right?" the elder of the two questioned, as they walked. Galahad confirmed that he had. "And you?" Gawain persisted.

"I fare well," Galahad reassured, smiling. Gawain eyed him suspiciously for a moment but at last looked away in satisfaction. He next asked about the Woad lady, and Galahad was pleased to say that she had apparently escaped unscathed. He didn't want to think on what would have been had Arthur lost her, since Lancelot already hung in the balance. Thinking of Lancelot and Arthur, he began to wonder how his captain and comrade were doing in the Sarmatian's room. He hoped Lancelot was improving for all of Arthur's concern and Guinevere's work. He would have to look into it later, if he and Gawain did not get themselves too drunk. He led Gawain to the supply stores wordlessly, otherwise.

"Gawain," said Bors jovially, getting to his feet. He clapped one hand onto the knight's shoulder, the other hand curled around a bottle of ale, and grinned. "I told you I would take care of your lad, here." He inclined his head to Galahad, who stood behind Gawain's shoulder and rolled his eyes irately.

"And for that, I thank you," Gawain replied gladly.

"What the bloody hell?" Galahad exclaimed incredulously, side-stepping out from behind his friend. "Bors didn't do a damn thing for me today. I am a perfectly capable warrior. How dare you imply that I am but a child who needs to be 'taken care of' and 'protected' and what not, when I could take any of you on with a sword, and you very well know it?" Gawain and Bors, however, simply chuckled to themselves and made their way over to the crates. Sitting down, Bors offered Gawain another bottle and the injured knight took it eagerly, uncorking it as Galahad glared at them.

"What are you laughing at?" he huffed indignantly.

"Galahad," Gawain started with a pacifying grin to his best friend. "Everyone knows you are a fine warrior, skilled with your blade as much as the rest of us. Bors was simply saying that he looked out for you in battle, as we always do. He was just poking fun." He took a drink, Galahad still leering. "Besides, are you to tell me that you never look to my safety in battle?"

"Of course I do," Galahad admitted, through gritted teeth.

"Exactly," Gawain said. "We all look out for each other. I'm sure you did for Bors today." Galahad glanced at Bors grudgingly, but the elder knight only smirked and took a drink. "And this exactly why we all look out for you, Galahad. You're too damn impulsive for your own good." Galahad scowled at him. "Almost as bad as Lancelot." He chortled, joined by Bors, but Galahad was too spited.

"How dare you laugh at him?" he hissed, and the other knights suddenly silenced. "How dare you laugh at Lancelot?" he raged, shouting. "He lies dying in our captain's arms, and you dare mock him." He whipped around, turning his back on them and started to stalk off.

"Galahad," Gawain called in upset, getting to his feet. "Galahad, wait." The younger knight turned on his heel to stare murderously at his friend, fists clenched at his sides.

"We weren't mocking Lancelot," Gawain said, wearing a distraught expression that Bors shared. Obviously, hearing Galahad say that their comrade was dying did not bode well them. "We weren't laughing at him. We meant no offense."

"And how else should it be taken, Gawain?" Galahad inquired. "Am I to take it all in good fun when you laugh at the expense of my dying friend?"

"He's our friend too, Galahad," Gawain snapped, his remorse turning to resentment. "It's not our fault that you are too easily offended."

"I am too easily offended?" Galahad echoed in disbelief. He was about to continue onward but stopped himself. "Fine," he said, the fury in his eyes twitching as it faded. "Drink your damn ale without me." This time, he left without looking back, and Gawain did not call after him, only struck one of the crates angrily.

Arthur looked up when the door burst open, and overwhelming relief washed over him when it was Guinevere he saw standing there. They locked eyes for the second time that day, and she bound to him, taking his face in her hands and smothering his lips with her own. She had not known desperation such as this, that which rose up in her like a flame when the Roman filled her sight after a battle. She had wanted to believe she could keep her emotions reined and controlled, but she had fallen in love with the Roman, though her original intentions had been only to seduce him for the advantage of such a union. She had not counted on being seduced herself, but alas, here she was. His arms came away from Lancelot and slid up around her. Her bare limbs encircled him, her fingers in his hair, and her cold skin jolted the warmth that had been preserved in this room. He wasn't sure if he was melting her cold, or if she was freezing him over.

"Come with me," she gasped, as his hungry lips traveled down her neck. Her hand slipped into his, and she barely managed to pull away. Without resistance, he came away from Lancelot's motionless form and let himself be led into the corridor for the first time in days. He hurried behind her, hands still joined, as she ran down the empty hall. Suddenly, he was in her room, and she was pushing him onto her bed. The candle flame flickered, and her hands were smoothing his chest. His hands traveled up her legs, over the blue paint that sent the sound of the tide into his mind. He reached her back, relishing the silk of her skin, whether or not it was coated in blood and ash or not. He opened his eyes when she hissed and broke their kiss. His hands ghosted her back, finding the open wound that resided there, below her leather. Before he could move his lips to speak, she silenced them with her hand.

"Kiss me," she said, and he obeyed.

Lancelot awakened to find that he was alone. Unrelenting silence filled his room, and when his vision unclouded, he could see the light of the candle yet glowed. Confused by his solitude, the knight sat up, wincing when he disturbed his wound. No on lingered in the shadows, as far as he could tell. The battle must have ended, he concluded. Either Arthur had left to greet the victorious or to look upon dead faces. Perhaps his captain had saw fit to leave because he believed Lancelot to be well, but the Sarmatian yet felt himself in the grips of fever. He couldn't remain, he decided as he attempted to ease out of bed. With one hand on the bedside table to push up with, Lancelot stood on his feet at last. Weak and unsteady from confinement, he collapsed on the rug, his legs giving way beneath him. Despite his attempts to hold to the table, his hand only ended up swiping the surface and knocking the candle down. The flame died and darkness suddenly consumed him. Cursing, he began to crawl toward the door, unable to see anything. Once his outstretched hand met wood, he struggled to pull himself up off the floor, wearing himself out with his efforts. Once on his feet again, he paused for a while against the wall, heaving with weariness and an aching chest.

Using the wall for support, Lancelot staggered down the corridor, panting as he did so. Whatever time of day it was, the inside of the Wall was always dark and lit by torches. Only rooms with windows had any sunlight. He groaned, realizing he hadn't seen the sun in days. Lancelot tripped over himself, falling to the stones again. For a minute, he lay still and breathed, his hand pressed to his throbbing wound. His brow was beaded with perspiration, as he propped himself up on his elbow and began to drag toward the door somewhere in the shadows ahead. He had felt stronger last he woke, when Arthur had been at his side, but now that strength had waned. He needed more of the draught that he vaguely recalled drinking. His wrinkled clothes scraped across the floor, his legs pushed himself onward as his elbow pulled. His hand did not leave his chest.

At last, he reached the door to the outside world, and, clasping the knob in relief, he heaved himself back on to his feet. His breath was labored and loudly gasping, and he rested against the door for a long while. He could almost taste the air beyond, as he watched strange visions in his head of moving sky. Once he caught his breath, the knight turned the door open, letting light stream in through the top crack like dawn. The darkness and dim light of the corridor was disrupted with gray beams, and the draft hit Lancelot like a first breath after a near drowning. He gasped at the sudden chill, only to find himself reeling in satisfaction. Staggering into the winter, Lancelot shed the heat that had encapsulated him for too long. He squinted since the light hurt his eyes but was nonetheless gladdened to feel the sun on him again, though it hid behind a drape of cloud.

The dying grass crunched under his boots, and he found himself alone in the square. He stumbled across into the middle, looking around for someone he knew but failed to find anyone at all. He then decided to find the supply chamber, hoping more of the draught would be found to strengthen him. Perhaps he could sneak some ale, too.

Galahad stalked down the corridor, moving in an out of light and shadow that was patterned on the floor by the windows. His brow was set and creased in anger, his eyes burning intensely. His arms swung at his sides, muscles taut, and his fists were clenched still. He would see to Arthur and Lancelot, but he knew he was in no mood to be anywhere near other people. He would have to go out riding or perhaps for a walk, in order to dissipate his fury. How dare they mock Lancelot? How dare they treat him like a child? How dare Gawain call him impulsive? Damn them. Once Lancelot healed, he was going to ride home on his own. He had made up his mind. Damn Gawain. Let the bastard deal with that.

"Impulsive," he grumbled bitterly. "Is that why you're such an insensitive ass, Gawain?" he questioned loudly, briskly continuing onward. "And I suppose they've overlooked the fact that Bors has eleven, bloody, illegitimate children. Now, they tell me I'm bloody impulsive and mock a dying knight? The bastards," he fumed. "All they care about is getting bloody drunk." Of course, Galahad had conveniently forgotten that he enjoyed drunkenness quite thoroughly, and he absolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that he _was_ as impulsive as they said. He didn't care if it was true about Lancelot, either. They had no right to speak of him when he was so sick. No bleeding right….

Having been so immersed in his raging thoughts, Galahad failed to see the other person standing before him, who he ended up running into. The two of them were knocked to the ground, and Galahad's vision finally returned to him. He groaned mildly as he sat up, apologizing for not paying attention. He got to his feet and offered a hand to the other man, and his eyes widened when he saw that it was Lancelot. His anger suddenly vanished, in place of disbelief and worry. Lancelot looked up at him disoriented, unsure of whom Galahad was at first.

"Lancelot," the younger knight began. "What the bloody hell are you doing out here?" He took Lancelot by the shoulders and pulled him up, allowing his comrade to lean against him.

"Needed some fresh air," Lancelot mumbled, failing to notice Galahad's somber and fixed gaze upon him.

"You're in no condition to leave bed," Galahad remarked. "I can't _believe_ Arthur allowed you to come all this way alone."

"Arthur doesn't know," Lancelot confessed as he swayed. "I was alone when I woke." At this, Galahad's brow furrowed, confused and hoping to gods that his captain had not crept into the battle undetected.

"Come on," Galahad said, ignoring Arthur's absence. "You're getting back into bed, and you're bloody staying there, do you understand?"

"Wait," Lancelot whined. "Have to get more draught." He reached out past Galahad, who had his arms around him and was trying to move forward. He sagged against the younger knight, the fever claiming his mind again. Lancelot gave up moving against Galahad and instead pushed away from him, staggering. Galahad looked at him in misunderstanding.

"I don't need to be coddled, Galahad," Lancelot said gruffly, sounding more like a drunk than a casualty. His gaze was narrow and unsteady, and he swayed dangerously.

"Like hell, you don't," Galahad scoffed. He watched Lancelot sharply, afraid that the knight would fall at any moment. "And if that is true, why do allow Arthur to do so?"

"Arthur," Lancelot began. "Is different. And besides, I'm not that ill any longer. I'm improving." Despite his words, he quavered, and his eyes fluttered open and closed. The world was spinning now, and Galahad was just a blur to him. He suddenly plunged into a terrible coughing fit, his body wracked with violent spasms. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest that ached tremendously now, and Galahad knelt before him. The younger knight took him by the shoulders, holding him steady, but Lancelot shook in his grasp nonetheless. A minute past, but the fit did not subside. Galahad gratefully recalled that his water skin yet hung at his waist, and he took it from his belt to offer unto his comrade. Lancelot, however, only claimed a single drink, for the fit sent him choking after that. He spluttered water onto Galahad's jerkin, dropping the water skin to the grass from his quaking hands. He clutched his chest once more, the pain almost overwhelming, but he could not stop coughing.

Despite her wound, Guinevere lay on her back in bed, contented and tired. Her leather garb and weapons lay in a heap on the rug, and her chest rose and fell evenly. Her dark hair was splayed out over the pillow and around her shoulders, her blue paint catching the light. Arthur sat hunched on the edge of the bed, half of the sheets wrapped around his waist. Scars were faint on his muscles, sprinkled over his arms and back and chest. She looked at him with heavy eyes, embers of fading pleasure. He was troubled once more, but her desperation had vanished.

"You need to have that wound tended to," he murmured.

"I know," she said quietly. A pause ensued before she asked, "What troubles you?"

"Lancelot," he said, and she had suspected correctly.

"Hasn't the medicine worked?" she questioned.

"He seemed better," Arthur began. "But I'm not sure if he had broken the fever or not. I forgot to check." His brow had knitted again, and she was quiet for a while.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have left him," Arthur said.

"He's probably still asleep," Guinevere suggested.

"Probably," Arthur said, but he wasn't so sure. Guinevere hesitated briefly but sat up slightly, propping back on her elbow. She held the sheets to her breast, and her eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

"If you have a bad feeling, you should go to him," she said, no trace of spite in her tone. He looked over his shoulder at her and managed a faint smile that only lasted a second.

"I don't know what else to do," he said, his eyes growing unfocused again. "We've done all we can with the wound, and your draught seemed to help. He didn't seem to break the fever, though. He would be fine, if it weren't for that damn poison."

"All we can do is wait," Guinevere said. "And hope. Love's presence holds power, Arthur. He does benefit from having you near him."

"I know," he said. "But I wonder if it is enough." He looked at her again, her dark eyes waiting. "If I am enough."

"You're more than enough, Arthur," she said. "For everyone." She reached out and lay her hand over his. "You must know how much he loves you." He dropped his eyes into his lap.

"Aye," he said quietly. "Too much." His lips twitched into a short-lived smile. He took her hand into his and held onto it for a moment, looking back at her. She knew not what to say. After a pause, he stood from the bed and began to dress.

Galahad had moved to Lancelot's side, his arm draped across the other knight's heaving back and his hand on Lancelot's shoulder. Arthur's best friend had not stopped coughing, and Galahad had already grown frightened. For a few seconds, it would cease and Lancelot would gasp for breath, only to have it start again. The younger knight stayed by him, rubbing his back in small in small circles and offering water periodically. He didn't want to leave Lancelot, but he knew his friend needed help. Who the bloody hell was out now? He couldn't hear or see a soul around them. Damn it, where had Arthur gone? Fear sprawled across his face like ink in water.

"Oh, _gods_, Lancelot," he said in terror, but he wasn't given another chance to speak. Galahad's head suddenly flung back, his curls bouncing away from his brow and returning. His mouth was agape, and he looked up into the sky. He had barely heard the hiss rip through the air. He was quivering, unable to make a sound.

"Galahad," screamed Gawain, who stood in horror only for a second. He rushed to his friend's side, skidding over the ground to his knees. Galahad slumped on to Gawain, his eyes glazed and wide. Gawain could only tremble in shock, gawking at the hilt of a knife that protruded from his best friend's back.

"Bastard," coughed the dying Saxon that leaned in the doorway that had been at Galahad's back. He choked and spluttered, eyes rolling back in his head, before finally falling to the ground dead. Gawain whimpered, falling apart as he pulled the blade from Galahad's back. The younger knight did not flinch or make a sound.

"Oh, gods," Gawain said, tears springing up in his eyes that were huge with disbelief. His hands shook in midair for a moment, until finally coming to rest on Galahad's back and in his hair. "Oh, gods." Galahad's stare was blank.

"Lancelot," Arthur cried, sprinting to the crumpled knight. He fell to his knees beside him not unlike Gawain had with Galahad. Lancelot managed to sit up and fall into Arthur, who wrapped his arms around his beloved friend. He yet coughed for a while, banging against Arthur's ribs with his own. His arms had draped limply over the Roman's shoulders, and Arthur knew he was crying.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped, his hand going to the black curls naturally. He began to slightly rock the knight. "I'm so sorry." Arthur suddenly stopped, however. His eyes narrowed to the ground and glinted. Lancelot had stopped coughing and now only panted desperately for air, tears running down his face. The Roman said nothing. He felt his heart go still.

Blood stained the dirt.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Finally, I have written Chapter 7. It took me about 2 days, if not 3, to write. It was actually a bit more challenging to get out than the other chapters have been. It's very, very emotional. I hope I didn't overdo it, as I have a tendency to do. You'd think this would finally be over, but I just keep on dragging the angst out, stretching the torment. 

(sigh) I need a life. I've had Arthur and Lancelot on the brain for the past few days. Too bad I don't live in their world instead of this one. Meh. Anyway. Remember: NO SLASH! And please – forgive me the typos.

Please Read and Review!! You give me a reason to live!!! I love you all, my beautiful, wonderful supporters!! You do so much, more than you know!! You make me smile and feel good. I really, really appreciate it. I hope my work is good enough for you....

Chapter 7

The world had suddenly become alive. Out of every door, the residents of Hadrian's Wall flooded out, and their shrieks of terror rang clear in the empty land. They swarmed around the knights, many young women wailing in anguish at the sight of both Lancelot and Galahad fallen. Arthur, however, didn't give them a chance to reach out. He got to his feet, Lancelot sagging against him weakly, and hurried through the crowd, back into the door from whence he came. Galahad heard nothing. His wide eyes were glazed. Gawain could only sit frozen in shock, his own eyes mimicking Galahad's. The faces around him were erased, the colors of their clothing mere blurs. Whatever idle words they buzzed, whatever melodramatic cries tore from the women, he could not hear them clearly. He was a dying star inside.

"Out of my way, out of my way," Bors exclaimed, pushing through the throng. Gawain's name was about to spring from his lips, when he finally reached the center of the circle and his voice was lost to him. Blood raged down Galahad's back, and Bors knew it was the lad only because he recognized the mops of curls as if they belonged to his own son. The burly knight had hardly looked so startled before. Gawain continued to stare blankly, having ceased to rock. The knife lay untouched at his side, staining the dirt beneath it. Scarlet was splayed in the circle's center as if a painter had stumbled, and not all of it belonged to Galahad. The Saxon corpse was finally noticed, as new screams marked. Bors broke out of his shock and fell beside Gawain.

"We have to get him to a healer, lad," he urged, further disturbed by Gawain's chilling expression. Gawain's eyes glinted, before he wordlessly turned his head to look at his comrade. The buzzing in his ears was growing louder, and Bors' pleading face was too close. He couldn't feel Galahad's weight against him. Even though he felt himself plunging into dark water, pulled abruptly away from the world, it was as if he was detached. That moment in which he stared at Bors seemed to last an eternity for him, but the bigger knight had already taken Galahad from his arms, wary that Gawain might throw a fit because of it. But Gawain was still. Bors' call unto him went unheard by the grounded knight. He only vaguely watched his comrade disappear into the crowd, headed for the archway where the Saxon had been, toward the healing ward. The faces were suddenly all leering at him.

"Guinevere," he shouted, Lancelot's limbs flailing as he struggled fast. The head of black curls lolled against his shoulder in unconsciousness, and Arthur was frantic in the swaying torchlights. The corridor was emptied again, only because the people were yet outside. He subconsciously hoped for Galahad, the anxiety of his situation teeming in his skin. "Guinevere." He was almost limping now, Lancelot's arms still strangely linked around his neck. He muttered, "Oh God," over and over, feeling as if the shadowed corridor was unending. He cried out to his lady once more, just as he stumbled and fell. Lancelot rolled out of his arms and lay sprawled out beside him, already too unconscious to wake. Guinevere hung out of her door in the next minute, her eyes widening and lips parting as she made toward her love. She knelt at his head, as he grabbed a fistful of Lancelot's tunic and looked to her.

"My God, he's dying," the Roman said, and she couldn't reply at once. She looked from him to Lancelot, and he struggled to his feet again, pulling his friend with him. Guinevere instinctively took her place at Lancelot's other side, and the two lovers dragged the Sarmatian's limp body back to his room. As they lowered him into the embrace of his bed, Lancelot started coughing again, though he failed to wake. Guinevere backed away, as Arthur went to his side and began to unhook his tunic at the neck, in the hopes it would aid him.

"What do you mean, he's dying?" she questioned, flustered.

"He's dying," Arthur said too loudly, frantic. "He's coughing up blood." He had taken a scrap of cloth from the table and hovered it over the knight's lips, the room filled with coughs. Lancelot's whole body seemed to quake, and Arthur put the cloth aside to pin his friend by the shoulders. Guinevere took the scrap in her delicate fingers, as he loomed over the Sarmatian. She gawked at the blood staining the cotton, eyes in the candlelight. Without so much as a quiet thud, the folded cloth fell to the stones, and she fled the room. Had Lancelot not been consuming all of Arthur's attention, the Roman might have questioned why she was leaving him.

"Oh, God," he said, not caring for his sin. "Please, Lancelot, don't do this." Tears were brimming in his eyes, and he knew it was no good. He shifted, reaching for the water skin at his belt, whilst his other hand firmly planted itself against Lancelot's breastbone. After pulling the cork out with his teeth, Arthur tipped it on Lancelot's lips, wincing when the knight choked on the water and spluttered, but Lancelot did manage to drink some. "Why is this happening?" he whispered, as Lancelot's coughs went muffled into the water.

Guinevere suddenly returned, flying through the burst open door, flask in hand. She nearly leapt on the bed but managed to skid to her knees beside Arthur. Throwing the cork aside carelessly, she urged Arthur to give it to the knight, which he did without question. The coughing had lessened but had not ceased completely. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Tipping Lancelot's head toward the bottle, Arthur helped his friend drink, and Guinevere watched wide-eyed, without telling him to stop before the flask was empty. As the coughing subsided and Arthur set the empty flask on the table, a heavy silence filled the room. Lancelot had grown almost disturbingly still, his body sinking into the bed as he exhaled, as if he were deflating.

"Do you think his lung is punctured?" Arthur asked her quietly, stilling fixed upon Lancelot.

"No," she said after a long pause. "I don't think he would have made it this long, if it was." Of course, both of them knew that possibility could not be known for certain. If it was true, all hope was lost. Lancelot would drown in his own water.

"God," Arthur said, looking into his lap. She looked to him inquisitively. "Galahad," he started and looked up to her. "He's been wounded." She flashed him a disbelieving expression. "I don't know what happened, but Gawain pulled a knife from his back." She gaped at him, words failing to escape her lips. He turned his gaze wearily to the stone wall across from him, fatigue apparent in the dark circles under his eyes, brought by stress instead of sleep deprivation. "What am I going to do?" he asked tiredly. "This is madness." She reached out and lay her hand on his arm.

"Do not lose hope," she murmured. "They need you now. We all do."

"And that need is heavy on my heart. I am not God. I can do nothing." He hung his head in defeat, exhaustion dangerously coursing through his limbs. In a moment, his shoulders were shaking, and Guinevere's face softened in compassion. She lay her hand between his shoulder blades, and Lancelot unexpectedly whispered his captain's name. Arthur lifted his gaze to his friend, as the Sarmatian's hand slid over the Roman's. Lancelot squeezed Arthur's hand with what strength he had left and looked upon his friend's tear-stained face with worn eyes.

"Where have you strayed, my friend, that you no longer have blind faith?" He gave a faint smile, and Arthur could not answer him. Lancelot gave a small cough toward the wall, and Arthur's eyes glimmered. "Forgive me," Lancelot said, once he had calmed and looked back to Arthur. "My strength wanes." He grimaced with another burst of coughing. "I don't know what it is inside, but it aches. That is all." Arthur's eyes squeezed in pain at his friend's words. The coughing returned, as bad as the first time, and it brought Arthur to sit behind Lancelot and take the knight in his arms. They encircled Lancelot's waist, while he held the knight close against his chest. Blood was sharply contrasting on the Sarmatian's unnaturally white face, and Arthur closed his eyes in cold agony that sliced clean up through his chest.

"Lancelot," he whimpered brokenly, his chest rising up into his friend's back. "Please." Guinevere's eyes gleamed in her contorted face. "Don't do this to me."

The Sarmatian took shallow breaths in rhythm with Arthur, but he soon started coughing again, choking. He was desperate for air, hungering for it like he had never had before, for anything. His lungs were tied up in strangling ribbons, refusing to take the precious air he was grabbing for. After a long moment of the fit, Lancelot gave out, falling into darkness as he doubled over. Arthur opened his eyes again, turning Lancelot to lie across his lap so that he could cradle his friend properly. Lancelot's head rested against his shoulder, and he began to weep, head bowed and body rocking.

"Lancelot," he whispered, his breath hot on the Sarmatian's drained skin. "Lancelot, please." And Guinevere realized that Lancelot had suddenly become small looking, curled in the arms of her lover. Watching Arthur, she didn't know what else to do for him or for Lancelot. They had cleansed and tended to the wound, and she had given him the Woad draught twice now. He did not seem to have an infection, but the arrow _had_ been poisoned. If only Lancelot's body was stronger, better apt to fight it.

He had flung himself at his beautifully wilted flower, arms wildly wrapping around the shaking shoulders. He took the head of curls in his embrace and guided it to his breast, where he let the tears of awakening and fear flow into his tunic. In a sudden revival, the young knight was seized by a coughing fit not unlike Lancelot's, blood splattered everywhere, down his tunic and across Gawain's and gleaming on his lips. His struggle for air was in vain, as he felt merciless stabs of fury sear through his back and his chest, his heart still alive somehow and pounding against his ribs. He shook with coughing, his hands quaking and bloodstained in the air. Somehow, Gawain was hushing him and not in the grips of his former, horrified reverie. In the midst of the chaos, of the scarlet-clad knight and Bors shouting distantly at the flustered physician, Gawain was calm, as he had always been in times like this. He wasn't thinking. Galahad was convulsing against his heart.

"What the bloody hell are you waiting for?" Bors yelled anxiously at the healer, who was on his knees, fumbling for the tray of utensils he had dropped in his haste and nerves. Everything seemed like a frozen blur, an echo, but Gawain could hear none of it. His world was the body that lay trembling so perfectly in his arms, the curls that still smelled like the green wilds of this miserable island, the strange memory of a tapestry spread under his fingers and in his lap, in the firelight. His eyes lay closed as he rocked Galahad like the knight was his child and not his friend.

"Oh, don't go, Galahad," he whispered sweetly. "If you do, I must name my firstborn after you, and I must hurry to find a bride before my own life slips away." Galahad's eyes were wide, his face against Gawain's heart and his lips blustering with the copper river of his mortality. He could not stop the fit to answer his friend. He only stared blankly into space, into nothingness, and finally came to wonder what space was. So many empty spaces, he thought. Galahad closed his eyes. How wide the space was between here and home. How wide the space was – between the first day Gawain had looked at him and this hour of his death.

"Do you remember home?" Gawain murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips, his eyes yet shut. "It is a wide country of green hills, like this island," he imagined. "Only more beautiful, because it is ours." His fingers curled into Galahad's wild hair, moving back and forth like the ocean. His other hand lay in his brother's precious blood, never once shying away from the crimson. "And there, across the wide stretch of hills and mountains, our people dwell." His smile deepened, and he lay his cheek upon Galahad's curls. "And they are beautiful too. And somewhere in the mists, a bride waits for you, in her plain skirts and tangled hair, more lovely than any goddess."

Bors stood slightly gaping at his comrades, as the healer staggered to his feet, tray in hand. He wanted to say that Galahad needed to be tended to, that Gawain had to let go now. Yet as Galahad quieted, sporadic coughs coming in bigger intervals, Bors found he could not disturb Gawain's murmurs and daydreaming. He had no idea where this sudden composure had come from, but he suspected it was helping the younger knight. The noise had died down now, as he and the physician stood watching the knights. This was how it must be with Arthur and Lancelot, when the impulsive and wounded knight was locked away with his captain. Bors' eyes glimmered painfully. Dagonet's loss was still an open wound. He even ached for Tristan's death, but Dagonet, especially, was an indescribable pain. He had had thoughts of killing himself, the night his best friend had fallen. _No_, the whisper had come through his tears, _you cannot follow yet._ Even the menacing Bors had felt a ghost embrace that night, curled against a tree trunk, straining to feel that faint trace of Dagonet's chest beneath his weary head. He had understood, as he did now. He resolved to name his third bastard after Dagonet. He was beginning to wonder if that's why the gods had given him so many sons. Lancelot and Galahad could not die now, damn it.

"Excuse me, sir," the physician said, his accent marking the far, far North of the whole island. Gawain lifted his eyes open like a cat, and they gleamed widely at the physician with an undefined look. Galahad had grown still against his breast, breathing in audible gulps. Somehow, he wasn't drowning so much anymore. Gawain's heartbeat was the sound that guided him to linger just below the surface, where the light above was twilight ripples. A familiar cold crept into the depths of his limbs, but part of him was warm in Gawain's embrace, his legs drawn up against his friend's arm. Gawain was a fire that never went out. He sucked in a breath thinly, his lashes curled thickly against his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You were right. I _am_ too impulsive." And Gawain would have grinned, if he had not been gazing fixedly on the healer, who had Bors flanking him. After a moment, Gawain gently took Galahad in one curled arm and lay him on the cot that he had been sitting on. The younger knight grimaced when his back touched the cloth, and his eyes were glazed in their heavenward stare at Gawain. Gawain's hands slid away from Galahad's body, stopping to rest on his forearm. They remained in their steady gaze for a minute longer, and Gawain decided to not notice the glistening crimson upon Galahad's form and the way it disappeared beyond his parted lips. It seemed as if they had something to say, but their eyes only shone in their constant beams. Gawain finally stood, his hand leaving Galahad's arm, and the healer took his place, as he backed away. Galahad was hidden from his sight, and he did not notice the way Bors eyed him.

_We will go home, we will go home. _

Ivory banners billowed in the wind and the glorious day, allowing only glimpses of the hills beyond and the gray skies. It would rain again, and the scent was on the air. Strange and smiling faces passed over him, like the last vision before death. Perhaps that's what it was. Perhaps he was going home. Their eyes were bright and filled with tender love. Did they dare love him? Did he love them in return? He could not remember. Somehow, he knew which ones were waiting and which ones were clinging. Who should he go to? He beheld the lady clad in gowns woven with the sea, like the beauty and darkness of evening. And beside her, slowly appearing, was someone with gentle gray eyes. The one who knew him best. He was smiling.

"Please," the Roman whimpered. "Please."

He passed by the gentle pair of eyes and walked out to the edge of the stone, where the wind moved in his charcoal tresses. His eyes sharpened in their gaze upon the open air, the wilds that were strangely beautiful. He remembered the hatred of it faintly. Yet he could not hate it now. Now, it was something new. It was home. It was a place he had never known. He could feel the gray eyes touching his back like butterfly fingertips and the scarlet cloak cupping in the wind. He could feel the hands moving over his shoulders and cupping over their curves. He knew he was smirking again.

"Lancelot," the captain cried quietly into the black curls. She watched him with brimming eyes. He had come undone. His rocking did not soothe the pain. Not even she could soothe it.

"Are you going to hold on forever?" he murmured into the wind, warmth spreading down into his limbs from where the familiar hands lay upon him. The lonely music of the hills filled his soul, and his curls were swaying again. He lowered his eyes when he went unanswered. "Tell me if your heart is true." The wildflowers danced in the breeze. "Tell me if I am more than rose." Petals fell one by one, a velvet circle around the base.

"Lancelot," the Roman mewled, weeping broken-hearted, as he had never done before. He held the knight in desperate beauty, in a despair that she had never known existed. Her tears were already prints in the snow of her face. He stripped her of the warrior skin and left her only a woman. His face lay against the knight's fevered brow, hiding the flushed face in his shadows. His supplication was lost on deaf ears, it seemed. _Oh, if only you could hear me_, he thought. The Roman felt as if he could never let go of the burning limbs, lest he crumble and fall to the earth as pieces that were no different than the ashes of a friend. Why could he not reach the knight? No matter how he pressed against the body, no matter how close he held him, the Sarmatian was just beyond his fingertips. Why could he not melt into Lancelot? Why could he not reach him?

"If only you could hear me," he whispered to the unconscious knight, his soundless tears disappearing into the curls, into the darkness. With eyes shut, he did not realize he had said the words. Her face was a disturbed expression. And suddenly, he began to rock again. He suppressed the gasping breaths and the rising sobs. He ignored the pain in his throat and his chest and his every thread. He stopped feeling that tears, regardless of the fact that they yet rolled down the curves of his face. He had let go of himself to fall back into the water, into the murky water where the knight floated, motionless. The Roman began to hum.

_We will go home, we will go home. _

Galahad did not voice the tingling pain that ached in his whole back. He lay still on his stomach, eyes open at empty space, and the world was silent. The physician had moved, but Gawain was gone. Bors sat vigilantly near his head, watching the healer work and making sure the young knight fared well. Ever so often, Galahad would break into coughs and more blood would stain the cot, collecting in a one large petal. His eyes were still glazed. Some might have suspected it was because he lingered on the threshold of pain. Others might have thought it was the pain. It was neither. His apology had gone unacknowledged. Gawain was gone. Finally, the tears leaked out.

Lancelot needed to believe that Arthur loved him more than just three words. He needed to believe that the Roman would love him if he rode to Sarmatia and not stop in his absence. He needed to know that he could never be replaced, by another knight or by a woman. He needed to know that his death would not be the end of Arthur or the end of Arthur's love for him. He looked into the wind and the skies, to where the wildflowers rustled, and his flesh rose up into Arthur's hands and pulled the Roman in.

"What's wrong, lad?" Bors asked Galahad gently, noticing the tears. "Is the pain too much?" He almost regretted asking this question, knowing if Galahad were in a right condition, the younger knight would have his head for asking such a question. But Galahad did no such thing now. He lay still, weeping, as the healer finished his work. His grip on the cot's edges gradually loosened, his knuckles growing pink again, after the bold white pain had turned them faded. His back gleamed in the dim light, an ugly gash now stitched below his shoulder blade. Another ripped tunic.

"I'll have Vanora make you a new one, lad," Bors said, touching one of the torn edges softly. He did not persist in asking Galahad why tears had come, since the other knight had not answered him the first time. Sympathy shone strangely the eyes of the great warrior, and he ruffled Galahad's curls, before turning to go. As the healer straightened and wiped his hands down the front of his apron, Bors leaned in to mutter a warning that Galahad was to be watched over. The anxious man only gave a short nod, and Bors left with one final glance back at Galahad.

"Lancelot," Arthur cooed, half-whimpering, begging into the Sarmatian's eyes. Lancelot had awoken, and Guinevere had given a start toward him in eager surprise.

The Sarmatian's eyes gleamed up into those gentle gray, as he panted for breath, with blood tainting his handsome face. She would later swear that she could have reached out to touch the love between them, in that moment. The image, the way they looked at each other, was forever etched into her mind. It was the image that came to her in the hour of Arthur's death and on the day of Lancelot's funeral, the image that carried her through every war and tragedy of her life yet to come. Their love, so desperate and wounded, sliced open before her eyes, was gleaming with fever and death and heaven's countless tears. Their bodies seemed to be made into each other's, their limbs fitting together like nature. The way Arthur held Lancelot, the way Lancelot in Arthur's embrace, was the manifestation of divinity to her. She later realized, after longer years bestowed wisdom upon her, why Lancelot had begun to cry.

"Lancelot," Arthur choked, pain springing out of his eyes like new creatures.

His hand returned to its proper place, hovering near the Sarmatian's brow. His fingers stroked at the knight's curls with agony and love entwined around them. A hitching breath flitted through his lips, steady floods coming from his gray pools. He was shaking again, shaking with humanity that embodied him, destroyed him, and sustained him. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to put her arms around those quaking shoulders and still them – nothing more, except to give Lancelot unto him, whole and immortal. Oh, if only they could live forever. If only they could die together.

"Please tell me the truth," Lancelot whispered, his head bobbing against his heaving chest. His eyes glittered, two pieces of the darkest evening sky, and she was weeping like the first time she had ever cried as a little girl and knew the reason she did. She hated doing it. She had trained herself not to. She had resisted those sort of tears since that first time, when her warrior father told her that she had to be strong. Suddenly, these two men pulled her composure out from under her, and she was left devastatingly vulnerable. She wished she could look heavenward and plead with the goddess through gritted teeth to give Lancelot his life. He couldn't be taken away from the Roman. Not now. Not yet. Never.

"Please tell me the truth," Lancelot repeated, his eyes squinting with burning tears. The room was slashed like a tapestry, with the blades of their gasping breath. "Please tell me you love me without any chains," the Sarmatian said, and Arthur's eyes glimmered as he tilted his head. "I need to know," Lancelot sobbed. "I need to know that it's all right to die. I need to know that I can go home and still have your love." His fingers had curled into Arthur's arm, clutching the sleeve tightly. His breath came in quick, labored heaves, blood shining from his lips.

"Oh, Lancelot," Arthur whispered, crying, crying like he didn't have to be strong. His hand drifted down from the knight's curls and his fingers graced the wet blood as if it was glass. His hand fit over Lancelot's jaw and cheek perfectly, and he stroked the knight's lower lip with his thumb, as if trying to cleanse it of the scarlet.

"You can die," he breathed hoarsely, a thick tear brimming in each eye. "You can go home." His eyes began to close again but never finished, only tried to squeeze the tears back in vain. "I will let you go." His thumb ran back and forth, back and forth over Lancelot's lip. The Sarmatian watched his best friend in devastation. "You're free," Arthur said meekly, a painful smile twitching briefly on his lips.

"But I will love you," Arthur said, killing himself. "I will love you, always. Until my dying beat, until the breath leaves my body, I will love you. You're my brother." And his hand caressed Lancelot's curls affectionately, nostalgic and almost afraid. His own lips were quivering, and he could feel his chest splitting apart inside.

Galahad finally squeezed the cot edges again, his eyes mimicking his fists. Tears were thick and heavy in his eyes and they rolled down his cheeks from his those eyes. He sobbed and inhaled sharply, trembling as if about the break. "Gawain," he whimpered, breaking his silence. "Gawain."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: You. Are going to _fucking_ hate me. I did not foresee this at all. I didn't plan it out from the start of this fic. But alas, this is the way it ends. Please, none of you go kill yourselves after reading this. I don't want to have anymore blood on my hands.... (Hee.)

Again, sorry for the delay, although at least it wasn't as long as last time. If only I could paint, I would make one fucking incredible beautiful painting of one particular scene in this chapter. Anyway, I hope this okay. If you want to come on over and wash a whole bunch of motherf-cking anti-depressants down with some heavy booze after you read this, you are totally welcome.

Please Read and Review!!! You give me a reason to live!!! (Although, I just killed like half of you with this....) Love you!! (I hope this shows it, hee hee.)

And remember: **NO SLASH**!

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Chapter 8

With the guards having fallen silently, they slipped through the gate unbeknownst to any of the people who resided in Hadrian's Wall. One by one, they filed into the archway, not yet stepping into the square where they might be realized because of the dead grass. Instead, they crept along the walls on either side, carefully stepping on the stones, and the silence was undisturbed. Though their ways were barbaric, they were not incapable of stealth, as their enemies would assume. No, they continued undetected, their weapons hidden and their sepia cloaks barely swishing at their feet. Their faces did not glare out yet, since they kept their heads bowed enough to hide in their hoods. Some disappeared into the Wall, slipping in from all sides of the square, and the rest sneaked away around a corner.

Galahad somehow got to his feet. The anxious healer had scuttled away for a moment, and he was left alone. The crowd had dispersed and retreated back into the wall, leaving the Saxon corpse where it lay. The desertion now filled the world with an eerie silence that he could almost see hovering through the air like a mist. A faint wind brushed through the square, batting at white feathers that were mysteriously gathered on the ground. He staggered, nearly falling to the stones but steadying himself. Tremendous pain clouded his eyes, and he gave a short bluster of a cough. Blood flecked the air and coated his lips anew. He remained where he was for a while, breathing heavily in his hunched position. The remnants of tears were nearly gone on his face, and his curls hung thickly above his eyes. He refused to surrender to the pain. Conviction urged him on. He needed to mend the broken before it was too late.

Leaning on the walls, he scraped along the stones, feeling as if every step took the last of his strength and seared through his back. He stopped every minute, heaving against the wall, his face gleaming with sweat. Each cough brought more blood. He kept his eyes on the empty space of the square, willing himself on. One more step. Almost there. Can't leave before fixing things. He dragged himself further. His callused fingers gripped the wall stones and his chest heaved against them, his legs quaking and threatening to give way. He gripped the corner at last, his fingers shaking regardless of the fact that they were digging into the stone. His face was severely contorted in a grimace of pain and determination, sweat beading his skin and already soaking the curls that fringed his face. His teeth shone in their grisly baring. With a grunt of toil, he heaved himself over and stumbled out into the open.

At last, Galahad collapsed in the middle of the square, curled on his side and gasping in vain for oxygen. Blood splattered the dirt anew beneath his lips, and his muscles grew taut and rigid in his fit. "Gawain," he choked. He writhed in the dirt, taking fistfuls of earth in his clenched hands, blood dribbling from his lips. His throat seemed to have closed up, and he could not utter his friend's sweet name again. He only wanted to see Gawain, just one last time. Visions came unto him with his eyes yet open, memories that only made him regret further. He was too young for life to snatch itself away from his grasp. He wanted to go home. "Gawain," he grunted. The elder knight was laughing in his memory, a silent laugh that still lit up his soul. Had it really come to this? Was his life to be ended in such disappointment? If closed his eyes, he could see the visions more clearly, but he didn't want to lose sight of the world when it was his last chance to see the earth and the sky and the light. Suddenly, he was a little boy, no more than four years old, curls bouncing as he ran into his mother's arms, beaming as little boys do. Yet it was not his mother he wanted now, in his final hour.

Gawain stumbled to his friend, the wide desperation back in his eyes. He took Galahad by the shoulders and turned him on his back to look into his friend's face. Blood was everywhere again, and Galahad had succumbed to weariness in his expression. He was paler than ever before, and his lips were almost blue. "'M sorry," he mumbled. "Don't hate me." And Gawain's eyes burned, as he sank to his knees fully and his shoulders caved. He pulled Galahad into his arms, his hand vanishing into the mop of curls that lay against his shoulder, and closed his eyes. "Oh, Galahad," he whimpered. "Forgive me." Galahad wanted to say so many things, as he rested his head against Gawain's breast. He wanted to say how much he wanted to go home. He wanted to tell Gawain that he loved him. He wanted his friend to understand why he was smiling with the blood thick between his lips, that is was because he was a little boy, innocent and free. But Galahad did not say a word as the hooded figure drew back his knocked arrow, aiming for him. Gawain rocked him, and Galahad did not say a word. "Forgive me, my friend."

Lancelot's eyes shone up into Arthur's, the captain's words echoing in his head. He could no longer see the waiting faces, only the gray skies passing through him. He was standing on the edge of foundation, and only the empty, unending space of the wilds lay before him. Arthur looked as if he was on the verge of saying something, but he did not. Lancelot twitched in his friend's arms, as if thick blood was rising in his throat. Guinevere looked from one man to the other, a sense of foreboding suddenly thick in the room. What would the answer be to Arthur's proclamation of selfless love? Why was darkness creeping into her chest?

"Arthur," he breathed, before breaking into a fit more violent than ever before. His body was an earthquake in Arthur's embrace, but Arthur never let go. Lancelot arched up suddenly, his head flung back, curls thrown, blood washing the wall behind him, hand gripping a tuft of Arthur's hair. Guinevere shrank back at the abrupt burst of black garments, blood, and scarlet cloak, but Arthur said nothing. He didn't rock or hush or make any other effort to soothe his friend, other than continue to hold him. When Lancelot finally sank back into Arthur's embrace, his eyes were full of exhaustion and defeat that Arthur failed to understand somehow. Lancelot's hand found Arthur's and held it to his failing heart.

"...Love..." he whispered, and Arthur understood.

As Bors turned a corner, his eyes grew in disbelief when he was met with a band of hooded men. They finally lifted their heads to leer at him from the shadows of their hoods, and he let fly a shout of alarm when he saw they were the last of the Saxons. The knight brandished a knife from his belt, the only weapon he had on him, and the barbarians didn't move as he charged at them. He stabbed the first man's shoulder, and the others only stepped back and watched. He realized the mists had returned, as the Saxon fell to the ground and he looked around with wild eyes at the circle that had been formed around him. One by one, they drew their swords.

Arthur's eyes glimmered. A deafening silence rang in his ears, as he stared with parted lips and an expression that was the embodiment of devastation. Just as it was with a wound, he did not feel the pain at once. Shock numbed him completely, as Lancelot's curls lightly bounced against his brow when his head fell to face away. He didn't feel his core quaking as it made to explode in the next moment, like a brilliant supernova. He couldn't even see Lancelot properly anymore, wasn't sure what he saw. He had left his body, failing to notice Guinevere slowly look up at him in tremendous fear. Her eyes gleamed wide, as she waited to see what he would do next, but he didn't make a move. Lancelot hung dead in his arms at last, limp as a wilted flower, waiting to fall apart completely. His limbs were relaxed in Arthur's embrace, his head turned away from Arthur's chest, his lashes curled against his cheeks and shut forevermore. Blood was still left on his face, a ribbon streaming from the corner of his mouth. She could see Arthur's lip quivering dangerously and didn't dare move, now like a rabbit caught by the hunter's eye.

She didn't hear the creak of the door, didn't turn around. Somehow distracted from the catastrophic tragedy that now shredded through his inner flesh, Arthur looked up from his reverie but could not cry out in time. Failing to warn his lover, Arthur sat frozen as the first hooded Saxon drew a hand ax from beneath his cloak. "No!" he cried, but it made no difference. No sooner than a breath after, the ax flipped across the room and sent Guinevere arching back magnificently, like a marble sculpture. Her hair seemed to float in midair after her head flung back, and her arms barely resembled outstretched wings in the way they were lifted. For a moment, she remained still in her pose, before slumping forward and hiding her face under her hair. Her fingers were half curled, as if caught in the middle of grabbing fistfuls of sheets. Her body lost the tension and grew as loose as Lancelot's. Somehow, he did not see the bloody ax, only the white silk of her gown and what was exposed of her back, the milky skin he had caressed in passion only hours before.

He didn't know why he tried. Perhaps it was because he had been trained to fight, because he had never surrendered himself in the past fifteen years. It wasn't logical, he subconsciously realized. But he didn't even think. He let go of Lancelot, flying from the bed, as if his loss did not exist. Snatching one of his best friend's orphaned swords, the Roman made one last attempt. Whether that attempt was one to save himself or to kill his enemy, he did not know, and it didn't matter. Arthur charged forth at the Saxons, the beasts who had taken everything from him, and one twinge of fury was enough. He swiped at the first, who stepped aside, and speed suddenly returned to the world after that. No longer was it a slow-motion nightmare that allowed him to see and notice every painful, Goddamn detail. Suddenly, it was an uprising of hatred and revenge and flashing blades that lashed out like fire whips, hungering for flesh like a hell-born animal. And yet, while his body functioned as it had been trained to do, Arthur withdrew into the ruins of his mind, tears bursting through the glass of his eyes like he had never cried before in his life. Some part of him, the human being he had been up until a few moments ago, plunged into inconceivable sorrow and desolation. He had come away from his body, and as his own burning tears consumed him, he watched himself fighting. He watched himself, until the last visions came unto him, just as he knew they would. All of his beloved knights smiling at him, laughing at him, alive and bright with mirth. Jokes that no one else outside the Round Table understood. Vigils at the bedside of a fallen comrade. Riding in the snow. The day they had pledged themselves unto him. Every time one of them had come to him for comfort in a time of sorrow, when they were unafraid to weep because they knew their captain understood. Every wound and every death. Every funeral. Every headstone. Every meal and every drink. Every moment he had ever shared with Lancelot.

_I'm coming, Lancelot_.

Perhaps he should have thought of Guinevere. Perhaps he should have thought of Rome. But the only thing Arthur could think about was his knights. He knew the others were dead. In his heart, he knew, like a mother knows when some evil befalls her child. The Round Table was waiting for their captain to commence the next meeting. He couldn't be late. The last of the Saxons came at him, and he did not realize all the others lay dead against the wall near the door, where they had been dealt no mercy by his blows. He could only see the blade of his attacker, knowing it was to be the end of him and welcoming it. Lancelot's sword struck out against his death, still defending the Roman to this moment, and the clash of metal reverberated in his ears when all other sound had faded out. The next move was obvious, and another clang sounded. But after this, the Saxon at last had the pleasure of spilling a legend's blood. His sword ripped up through the Roman's chest, and Arthur's arms lifted like a bird's wings. He took breath as his enemy sliced him open, and a laughing Guinevere flashed through his mind, her smile intoxicating him all over again. As his fingers loosened and Lancelot's sword slipped away from his grasp, Arthur staggered back. He collided with the bedside table, did not see the Saxon grinning, and his immortally beautiful mother peered over her shoulder at him. The candle flickered.

A cry broke the silent slaughter, as blue-painted Woads streamed down into the square from all around Merlin, who stood at the Wall finally. His warriors looked to be like horses, the way they galloped down, axes and blades brandished before them. In a second, the Saxon archer fell dead, his upper half hidden behind the corner since he had been turning to flee. Galahad and Gawain lay on the earth, enfolded in each other's arms, the wind stirring their hair like it had blown the feathers. They looked to be sleeping, and Merlin did not see the knights they had been, but the boys who had first come to Arthur's bidding, all those years ago. The archer had taken back his arrows from their flesh. The old sorcerer gazed down at the young Sarmatians with a look in his glinting eyes that may have been called sadness, and he did not hear the noise that arose due to his Woad warriors flooding into every door of the Wall, like hounds let loose on the hunt. He remained on the Wall until he was left in silence, abandoned by the Woads who had disappeared inside, and still he looked upon the knights.

"Victory!" screamed Arthur's killer, once he had gone out into the corridor and the few other Saxons who were out in the long corridor turned their heads toward him and gave shouts of mirth. Yet their triumph was abruptly interrupted when Woads flew in, like great floodwaters, washing them away in a fury of blue. The other citizens and guards who resided in Hadrian's Wall started to come forth from their rooms, awakened at last, shrieking in terror. The Saxons who had managed to reach them had already murdered some in their sleep. Though they had never been the Saxons' enemy, their lives were spent simply because the barbarian conquerors enjoyed the sport of killing. Now, however, they had trapped themselves in the Wall, and the Woads persisted raiding it, flowing in and out of every room to kill whatever Saxon they could find.

Merlin, however, did not take up his weapons. He had come down from the Wall, leaving Galahad and Gawain untouched, and began to search for Arthur. He trudged amongst his rushing warriors, looking every year his age, and none disturbed him. All the doors were left flung open, and he glanced into every room, ignoring the wailing women and children and the cursing men. He stepped over bodies, not taking the time to look if they were one of his Woads or a Saxon. When he did not find the room in that corridor, where the narrow windows let in pale streams of light, he continued on to the next and the next, until at last he spotted the captain struggling on the floor in one of the rooms. The old man did not hurry to the Roman's side, only approached as if he had the rest of eternity. Contrary to nature, Arthur yet lived. The Saxon had stabbed him several times, though Merlin could not see each wound, but the blood was testimony enough. He grunted in his struggle, trying to pull himself up onto the bed, where Lancelot and Guinevere lay dead. Blood was running from the Roman's mouth in alarming abundance, and the old man knew Arthur only had a few moments more, if any at all. Yet he stopped in the midst of it all, standing in the same place where Guinevere and Arthur and Galahad had stood when Lancelot had yet lived. He looked to the bed, his eyes flashing for a second, and from out in the corridor, the Woads shouted Guinevere's name in unison. He knew it was a call of mourning, a call for her to bless them in their quest for Saxon blood, which they took for vengeance now because of her death. The ax lay on the floor near the foot of the bed, and Merlin could guess what had happened, looking at the gash in her back.

"So it has come to this," he said, as Arthur blustered and toiled in vain to lift himself to the bed. His lips gleamed in likeness to Lancelot's, drenched in sweet blood. His hand shook fiercely on the table, and though he lifted himself for a moment, he only ended up collapsing again, swiping the table as he went, knocking the candle down. But it was all right. Guinevere's lantern still burned on the wall.

"The end of an age has come," Merlin said grimly. And miles down the Wall, more Saxons set the place alight, driven into madness by the blood lust that had been more than fulfilled. Through the corridors they flew, at that other end of the Wall, cackling at the sick joy of their massacre, where already the innocent civilians and soldiers of Rome lay dead. The Woads were coming for them as swiftly as they could, but already, too many had been lost. And even now, the bodies burned into the ashes that Sir Lancelot of Sarmatia had always wanted.

Arthur choked on a bloody cough, his strength replaced by a cold that not even his own blood could warm, though the crimson coated his body now. He reached for Lancelot's empty, upturned hand that lay on the sheets, staining the fine lines of his friend's palm with his blood. And for a moment, he rested. For a moment, he sat on the stones, heaving against the bed and the table, with his hand clasping the lifeless one of his beloved brother. He could see the fields of heaven, and he knew his heart was failing. If only it failed like Lancelot's, he would have no complaint.

Merlin squatted down on a patch of clean stone, eyeing Arthur with a stifled sigh. The Roman glanced at him briefly, the old man who had been his enemy for so long, who had cost him too many knights, the one who had led Guinevere and the one he had fought for only a few days before. This sorcerer had taken from him almost as much as the Saxons had. And yet now, as he was speeding toward death, he could hold no grudge against him. He looked away, his hand loosening in Lancelot's and reaching further, up the Sarmatian's wrist. Again, he tried to lift himself up, using the table, and Merlin let him struggle for a minute.

"What is it you want, lad?" he asked the Roman finally. And Arthur stopped his efforts and grew still for a while, staring at Merlin narrowly as he panted for short bursts of air. They remained in their fixed gaze for a minute, the elder man waiting patiently with eyes set under a drooping brow.

"Lancelot," Arthur burst, coughing afterwards, blubbering the name with a mouth full of blood. And strangely, Merlin chuckled to himself, his eyes never leaving the Roman.

"Strange you would say that," the Woad remarked. "He would have said freedom."

"He _is_ my freedom." Another mild coughing fit wracked his pierced flesh, and he grimaced painfully as the blood came up. Merlin gave a steady nod, his mirth having faded away as if it had never come. Without a moment's more hesitation, he straightened and carefully lifted Arthur to his feet, sagging under the weight of the Roman. Arthur gave a sigh of immeasurable gratitude, as he was lowered on to the bed, beside his gloriously fallen Lancelot. Merlin stepped back from the sacred bed of myth and looked upon the Roman with a respect that Arthur would have never guessed he would.

"May your greatness live," he said. "Forevermore." And unexpectedly, the Woad presented Artorious Castus with Excalibur, his legendary blade that indeed would never be forgotten. Slipping it gently under Arthur's right hand, Merlin returned the sword to its rightful place, over the Roman's heart. And Arthur looked wearily at him, grateful and with no regrets left to him.

"Long live King Arthur."

And when at last the surviving Woads began the toil of clearing away the destruction of the wall, one of them came across a scrap of parchment. It was wrinkled and stained with age, three of its four corners singed by the flames. Amongst the shambles of Sir Lancelot's room, it fluttered audibly on the stones, drawing the blue warrior's attention. He knelt down and took it delicately in his hands, narrowing his eyes at the elegant script. His eyes followed the lines, until finally softening in a way that would have made his comrades wonder. After a moment's pause, the young Woad folded it carefully, tucked it in his satchel, and turned his back on the lifeless bodies.

_To you, Artorious Castus, I pledge my servitude,_

_For so long as you shall need it of me,_

_And I vow before God to fight for you, defend you,_

_Protect you, and do the bidding of Rome _

_Until my time is ended. _

_I, warrior of Sarmatia, pledge my allegiance to you,_

_And promise, with all my heart, to forever be_

_Your knight._

Lancelot was laughing heartily, the sound of his mirth echoing throughout eternity, as he finally reached his captain. His arms encircled the Roman, and Arthur caught a glimpse of a smiling Guinevere in the distance, before Lancelot began to spin him around in circles, still in the Sarmatian's embrace. There also were Galahad and Gawain, standing close together, their hands clasped between them as they watched their captain and his best friend. Dagonet grinned with folded arms, as Bors chortled beside him, a deeper and thicker laugh than Lancelot's. And farther up the hill, though not as far as where Guinevere stood at the top, Tristan peered over his shoulder at them, smirking in that way he always did. The lady's gowns of white silk fluttered in the breeze, as she stood watching her lover and his friend spinning below. A wistful smile graced her lips, and at last, she turned away from them, a white mare's tail whipping up behind her as she disappeared down the other side of the hill.

Still smirking a secret smile, Tristan turned his back on his comrades at last, springing up into the air even before he reached the top of the hill, the wind catching his sleek wings as he cried out in his hawk's voice. Bors tagged Dagonet and fled away, finally getting Dagonet to laugh, as the two followed Tristan and rumbled the earth with their pounding hooves, their bursting muscles flexing like water in their chests and powerful legs. Galahad gave a small tug at Gawain's hand, like a timid child, and the two shared a smile for a moment, before Galahad led Gawain away, and they raced up the hill laughing, leaping over the other side with their chestnut manes streaming behind them.

And at last, only Arthur and Lancelot remained, dancing in their eternal circle of explosive love. But the Sarmatian did not keep them spinning forever. He finally stopped, his dark eyes flashing jubilantly at Arthur, who was surprised that he wasn't dizzy. Lancelot read his thoughts and threw his head back in laughter, making Arthur grin broadly. The knight quieted and looked heavenward, up to the hill, which he had been so longing for all those years of his servitude. And Arthur looked with him, his hand still laced into Lancelot's. His friend looked back to him with questioning eyes, waiting for his captain to give him leave, even in the afterlife. And Arthur only paused to gaze deep into those twitching, vivid eyes, before smiling faintly, and Lancelot broke out into a wild smile as he pulled Arthur along up the hill, stumbling in their haste. They ran to the arms of peace, to the embrace of eternal liberty, and they exploded into glory and velvet, black and white bodies with four limbs, their whinnies of victory ringing throughout time even once they had disappeared beyond the horizon.

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-:FIN:-


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